One Less
by joykatleen
Summary: The murder of a sailor in a DC warehouse reveals a conspiracy that's been silently destroying lives on a Navy carrier for years. Someone high is covering it up. Can Gibbs and company get to the root of it before more lives are lost? NOW COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

Okay, folks... this is it. For those of you who've been waiting so long, I apologize. For those who haven't been waiting, great! To all of you, welcome.

As of Sept. 6, 2011, this novel is COMPLETE!

Disclaimer: In addition to the usual cast of characters we all know and love, I've borrowed another one from Donald P. Bellisario and Company. It was a character who only appeared in one episode in season two, but the character's interaction with Gibbs, and Gibbs' reaction to the character, stuck in my mind and became the basis for the plot in "One Less." I appreciate and acknowledge the inspiration. Finally, this novel was started LONG before current political events occurred, though I must say its subject matter has become awfully timely.

And on that note, on with the show.

**One Less: Prologue**

**by joykatleen**

_(Before the Credits Roll...)_

Two nights ago, Nicky'd had a heart to heart talk with President Bartlett.

No, wait, that wasn't right. The President was Bush. No, that wasn't right either. It was the new guy. Obama. That was right. The President was Obama, not Bartlett. Bartlett was the TV president, on that West Wing show he used to watch at the shelter. But it was definitely Bartlett who called Nicky two nights ago to talk about the war in the Middle East.

No, that wasn't right either. Nicky was in his room alone all night that night. He remembered he was sitting on his bed, or rather the moth-eaten cushions he used for a bed, and then he heard President Bartlett ask for his opinion on what the US's next move should be. He couldn't have called, because Nicky had no phone. Therefore, he must have imagined it.

Reaching that conclusion, Nicky felt better. The doc said he was smart enough to reason these things out. All he had to do was apply logic and reason to the voices, and he could figure out which were real and which were in his head. Auditory hallucinations, the doc called them. Nicky always wondered at that. Years ago, he'd had some great hallucinations. And sometimes some not so great ones. But they were always of the visual kind. This whole auditory thing was pretty new to him. He knew why he sometimes saw things that weren't there: Too much booze and too many good drugs in the bad years. But how can you hear something that isn't there?

Nonetheless, Nicky knew that the President was Obama, and Bartlett was a TV guy, and neither one of them could possibly care what a crazy old man thought about the latest crisis overseas. So he must have imagined the whole conversation. So there.

But what about the dead Marine?

Between the phone call from President Bartlett and another, equally odd conversation with David Letterman – who lived in Connecticut, not in Washington, DC, and who therefore could not possibly have stopped by to visit old Nicky, another one logiced out – he'd heard a loud bang and then a bunch of men yelling and fighting. He didn't know if it was real people or more hallucinations, but it didn't really matter: either way, Nicky wanted nothing to do with it. So he'd laid on his mattress and covered his head with the old army blanket he'd gotten from the Salvation Army – hey, that was funny! – and tried to make it go away.

It hadn't worked very well. Even under his blanket, he could still hear them. Angry men, screaming terrible, hateful things. The most vivid auditory hallucinations he'd ever had.

The voices of those men had been harder to reason out. His auditory hallucinations – how does that happen anyway? – had always involved the people Nicky saw on TV in the waiting room at the VA hospital or at the TV store in the mall. David Letterman, President Bartlett, Dr. Phil, Judge Judy, even Oprah sometimes. Never fighting men. But on the other hand, how could it be real? Nicky lived in an abandoned storage warehouse next door to an old packing plant, deep inside one of the hundreds of small rooms people used to store their extra stuff in. It was warmer than the streets, and usually pretty quiet. Sometimes he'd run into other folks like him, folks with no place better to take shelter from the biting cold that came with the Washington winters, but never had he seen Marines. Yet when the angry men wouldn't shut up, he'd risked a look and seen them: three Marines in fatigues, beating on a fourth man in strange clothes, and yelling, yelling, yelling.

The VA doctor told him he could reason these things out. That the hallucinations would come and go, but that he was smart enough to figure out what was real, if he just thought it through. Still, this one was tough.

Nicky moved through the city like a stray dog. Few people ever acknowledged him, and those who did usually took a quick look then turned away. He didn't blame them. He wasn't exactly a sight for sore eyes. More like something from a side show. When he was in the war, he was caught in a terrible fire, and his face had been badly burned. The scars were horrible, even scaring him sometimes when he caught his reflection in store windows or when he had to look in the mirror. It didn't bother him, not that much, anyway, but almost fifteen years later, they were still real bad. No wonder people avoided looking at him.

Other than the VA doc, and that little nun at the church who let him do odd jobs in exchange for a shower and a change of clothes, Nicky didn't talk to many people. Not that he needed people to talk to: He had great conversations with famous people most every night. But not really. He knew that. He was actually pretty smart, when you got right down to it. Just because he'd fried his brain a little with the drugs didn't make him stupid.

Still, it was hard. Sometimes he wished he could be normal. It was why he went to the doc, why he took his medication when he thought to. The voices went away then, and Nicky was alone. And as much as he sometimes wished he could be normal, get a job, maybe have a family, not having the voices to talk to got lonely too.

For awhile, he had tried to be normal. He dried out, got clean, and worked for a little while picking up trash in the local parks. But his face scared the kids. The last thing Nicky wanted to do was give kids nightmares. Lord knew he'd had enough of his own as a child. So he quit. Collected his disability checks and lived off them. It was easy to do when you had no house and no car. And when you weren't picky about what you ate.

He was still clean and sober, though. Going on nine years. He was very proud of that fact, even if no one believed him. He could see in their faces when they passed him on the street. He was just another drunk: almost invisible, but not quite. He always made sure never to talk to anyone he couldn't see when he was in public, no matter what they said. Because face it, that was scary, watching someone have a conversation with someone who wasn't there. And unless Nicky could see them, how did he know for sure they were there?

But the Marines, them he'd seen. He'd snuck out of his room, down the long hallway to the stairwell, down to the first floor. It was warmer on the top floors: heat rises, you know. The Marines were on the first floor, in the large, open area that used to be warehouse receiving. They were over in the corner where the street light shone in, yelling and screaming and carrying on something awful. Nicky hadn't stayed long. Real or imaginary, they were big and scary, and he didn't want them to decide he 'needed to be taught a lesson' like they were teaching the man on the ground.

After awhile, the angry voices stopped, and Nicky was able to fall asleep. In the morning, when his stomach told him it was time to go looking for breakfast, he'd slipped down the stairs again and seen the man still lying on the ground. He was battered and bloodied, and dead. And scary as all get out. It had been a lot of years since Nicky had seen a dead man, in real life. He saw them on TV a lot, and he tried to remember what show this dead man had been in, but he couldn't.

He'd gone back to the VA hospital that morning, to get his medication refilled. He didn't mention the dead Marine. He didn't want the doctor to think he was having trouble reasoning it out. Because that would mean a trip to the nut house, and that place was scary. Full of crazy people, bouncing off the walls and talking to people who weren't there. Yelling at them even. Nicky had been there a couple of times when he was drinking, and he didn't ever want to go back. So he told the doc he'd only just run out.

It usually only took two or three doses for the voices to go away. He took the first at the doctor's office before lunch, then another with his dinner. A third at bedtime and the dead man should be gone by morning.

But he wasn't.

This morning, when he came down from his room, the dead man was still there. There were rats there, too. Nicky hated rats. In Kuwait, the rats grew big as Chihuahuas. Here, they were big enough to bite and chew and pass on diseases and fleas. Seeing them there, sniffing and – eww yes, chewing – made Nicky want to run. But if the man was real, didn't he deserve… something?

So Nicky yelled and stomped and made the rats go away, then he crouched next to the dead man. He was lying on his back, blank eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. With a hand trembling only party from the cold, he reached out and touched the man's face. He was cold, like the cement he was lying on. Real, not a hallucination. The man was wearing strange clothes: tight pants and boots with heels and an unbuttoned shirt with a little short shirt underneath, all of it under an orange trenchcoat. His short brown hair was spiked up in all directions. There were several necklace chains around his neck. Among them, a silver beaded chain that Nicky would recognize through the worst of his hallucinations: dog tags. He reached for them and felt at the tags. Too dark in here to read them, except he recognized the third line: USN. A sailor, not a Marine. And definitely real.

He had to do something. He couldn't call the police: they would find him here, and then they'd ask questions. When they found out who he was, they'd probably take him to jail. Last time he got caught stealing food from the 7-11, he'd been 'cited out' on a promise to show up in court. Then he forgot to check what day it was and didn't show up for court, and Nicky was pretty sure that meant there was now a warrant out for his arrest. The police would definitely take him to jail if they knew who he was. He'd been to jail once before, years and years ago. It was as scary as the nut house, and way more dangerous.

But the man was a sailor. Nicky liked sailors. A long time ago, Nicky had been a Marine, and even though there was a tradition of sailors and Marines not getting along, he'd had lots of sailor friends. It was a really long time ago, true, but once a Marine always a Marine, and he had a duty to be always faithful. To Marines, and to sailors too. He couldn't just leave the man here, now that Nicky knew he was real.

Nicky carefully lifted the man's head and pulled the dog tags off his neck. He held them in his palm, let the chain pile atop them, and put them into his pocket. Then he used his thumb to gently close the man's eyes.

"Semper Fi," Nicky whispered, and nodded to himself. He would do the right thing. He had to.

* * *

_(FOOF)_

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 1

**One Less - Chapter One**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

In the third-floor squadroom of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service headquarters aboard the Washington Navy Yard, Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs was drinking coffee and trying not to go nuts from sheer boredom. He and his team had been without a fresh case to work for nine days. It seemed like everyone in the DC area had decided to behave themselves all at once. It wasn't that Gibbs wanted someone to commit a crime, but the lack of action was maddening.

NCIS was the Navy's law enforcement arm. Unlike the Army and Air Force equivalents, NCIS was made up of civilian agents under a civilian director who answered directly to the Secretary of the Navy. The agency's Major Case Response Teams were made up of three to five agents who specialized in investigating felonies committed by and against members of the Navy and Marine Corps and their families. Along with a medical examiner and a forensic scientist, they handled every aspect of the case starting with witness interviews, evidence gathering and crime scene analysis, through case-building, to suspect interrogation and arrest. Their jurisdiction was based on identity of the parties rather than geography or nature of the crime, making them unique among civilian armed federal agencies. Only one Major Case team worked out of agency headquarters. Most of the other agents assigned there were in supervisory or analysis roles, helping to oversee the entire spectrum of NCIS's mission.

The squadroom contained three loosely divided work areas. At one end were the desks of intelligence analysts and other staff that supported NCIS's worldwide operations. The opposite end contained the desks of the half-dozen or so field response agents not assigned to one of NCIS's 16 field offices, 140 other permanent locations, or aboard ships. The center of the room was reserved for the agents of the Major Case team, lead by senior ranking field agent Gibbs, a retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant and 18-year veteran of the agency. Together with his team, he had the best clearance rate in modern NCIS history. Which was why, when the post-holiday lull hit, the agents had little to do but sift through cold cases, seeing if a fresh look might develop fresh leads. So far, they'd found nothing worth pursuing.

Gibbs' team consisted of three agents: His second in command and eight-year agent Anthony DiNozzo, Mossad liaison officer Ziva David who'd been with them about four years, and Tim McGee, a young agent who'd proven himself invaluable to Gibbs over the last six years, mostly for his ability to coax just about anything out of a computer. They held the day shift, typically the busiest shift. But not these days.

When Gibbs' phone rang an hour into their Monday, all three of Gibbs' agents looked at him with hopeful expressions. He gratefully dropped the file he'd been scanning, pulled off his reading glasses and snatched up the handset.

"Yeah, Gibbs," he said.

"Stokes, main entrance." Henry Stokes was the weekday security supervisor at the building's front doors. He had a voice that Gibbs could have picked out of a stadium crowd. Gibbs passed Henry's security station on the way out and back in every time he went for coffee, which for Gibbs was at least half a dozen times a day. They'd become casual friends over the years, exchanging pleasantries, one-liners, weather reports and news briefs. Yet Henry always identified himself that way, every time he called up. Like without giving his name and identifying his station, Gibbs wouldn't remember him.

"Henry. How you doing?" Gibbs asked.

"Good. I've got a guy down here says he knows where there's a dead sailor," Henry said.

"So do I. Couple thousand of them, over at Arlington," Gibbs said. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. They felt tired and strained. Probably time for new glasses. Damn. He was getting old.

"Funny man. But seriously. I think he's legit."

"Okay. Send him up," Gibbs said.

"That's the problem," Henry said. "He doesn't want to come in."

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"He's homeless, a little off. Doesn't want to give his name, refuses to pass through the detectors. Keeps saying he knows where there's a dead sailor and he wants to talk to an agent."

"Seem like trouble?" Gibbs asked. He glanced up and discovered he was the center of his team's attention.

"I don't think so. I think he's got something to say, and you should come down and talk to him."

"Alright," Gibbs nodded to himself. "Be right there."

"Better bundle up. It's cold outside."

"I'll keep that in mind." Gibbs hung up. He stood and pulled on his overcoat, turning to see his team preparing to gather their gear.

"Where do you think you're going?" Gibbs asked. Almost as one, the three of them resettled at their desks, disappointed looks all around.

"I'll let you know," he said. He picked up his coffee cup – almost empty – drained it, tossed it in the trash, then headed down to the lobby.

Henry was standing on their side of the metal detectors, thick arms crossed over his broad chest, watching a man of indeterminable age pace back and forth on the public side. The man was wearing many layers of tattered winter clothing, every inch of his skin covered with something warm, including both a knit ski mask and a wool beanie. He was shaking his hands lightly and mumbling to himself. Gibbs met Henry's eye, and the security officer shrugged. Gibbs stepped around the metal detector.

"Sir?" Gibbs said as he approached. "You wanted to talk to an NCIS agent?"

The man turned toward Gibbs, stopped still and eyed him up and down. Through the eye and mouth holes in the ski mask, Gibbs could see he was Caucasian, and that his lips and eyelids were misshapen and scarred, but nothing else.

"You an agent?" he asked.

"Special Agent Jethro Gibbs. And you are?"

"Nicky. Nick. Well, Dominic, really." Gibbs could immediately see what Henry had meant by 'a little off.' He was talking fast, moving his hands nervously.

"Nice to meet you, Nicky," Gibbs said, and stuck out his hand to shake. The man shied back, looking at Gibbs' hand like it was a snake. His eyes flickered between Gibbs' hand and his face, and finally he hesitantly shook. His hands were encased in several pairs of woolen gloves, holes in one pair showing the color of the pair beneath.

"You want to come inside? It's cold out."

"No, I can't," Nicky said, and looked past Gibbs to where Henry was still watching them. "They might be listening."

"Who, them?" Gibbs said, gesturing to Henry and his three officers. "They're harmless, I promise."

"Not them," Nicky said, but didn't elaborate. "I can't come in. I just came because I want to do the right thing."

"Always a wise choice," Gibbs said. "Henry tells me you know something about a dead sailor?"

"I do," Nicky said. "But not here. Can we walk?"

"Sure," Gibbs said. "I could use some coffee. How about I buy you a cup, Nicky?"

Nicky's eyes lit up behind the mask, and he nodded rapidly several times. "That would be real nice."

"After you." Gibbs gestured toward the doors, and Nicky led the way out into the cold. Gibbs turned up his collar and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. He moved easily, despite two bad knees that sometimes made him want to do anything but stand and walk. Somehow, it was always better when the weather was cold and dry. His ears immediately started to tingle, uncovered as they were by his longer-than-regulation – but still short enough – gray hair. The sky was overcast, threatening snow. That wouldn't be a bad thing: It hadn't snowed in days, and what remained from the last storm was gray and dirty, and kind of depressing.

As they walked, Gibbs considered the other man. Gibbs was a good eight inches taller than Nicky, making the smaller man 5'4 at the most. It was hard to tell how heavy he was under all the clothing he was wearing. His face under the mask was angular, so he was probably thin. His voice when he'd spoken was flat and without accent, meaning he probably wasn't from around here. But Gibbs was no linguist. The man's clothes were clearly second-hand, more dirty than clean, but they didn't smell. At least not that he could tell at this point.

They ducked into a small café a few blocks from the Navy Yard. It wasn't Gibbs' usual haunt, but it made pretty good coffee and had a fair-sized indoor seating area. Gibbs didn't want to have a lengthy conversation outside.

When they had two large coffees, and Nicky had poured a generous helping of sugar into his, they took chairs at a small table away from the door. Nicky pulled off his gloves and beanie, unzipped his outer coat, but left the ski mask on. It raised Gibbs' suspicion level a little, but he felt in his gut the guy was harmless. He opened his own coat.

Nicky spoke first. "I got some problems, you know? My head is kind of messed up. I take medicine, when I remember. When I don't, I sometimes see things and hear things. Things that aren't really there, you know?"

"I understand," Gibbs said and sipped at his coffee. He was wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

"So when I heard them fighting, I didn't think they were real. I lost my medicine a couple weeks ago, and it wasn't time for a refill, and President Bartlett called, and then David Letterman showed up, after the fighting."

"Okay," Gibbs said, for want of anything better. Nicky sighed.

"I know it sounds crazy. I am crazy sometimes. I know David Letterman didn't really come. Now, I know. But at the time, it feels pretty real. Really real. Which is why I thought they weren't real either, the three Marines beating up the sailor."

"So you saw a group of Marines fighting?" Gibbs clarified.

"I heard them first, from upstairs. A loud bang woke me up, then I heard them shouting. But I didn't think they were really there. You need to understand, Agent Gibbs, I didn't think they were real. If I'd had my medicine, and I'd seen them, maybe I might have been able to do something, though I don't know what, before they…"

Nicky was getting agitated, and Gibbs gave him his best reassuring smile. "It's alright, Nicky. Take it slow. What did the Marines do?"

"I came downstairs, mostly down, and looked around the corner. I saw three men beating on another one, only he wasn't in uniform so I didn't know he was a sailor then. Not until after I got my meds and he was still there. They were saying such terrible things to him. Calling him terrible names. You used to hear Marines say things like that, back in the day, in the old movies they show on TV sometimes? And sometimes I heard it myself, from the older guys. But that was a different time, you know? These days, to hear those Marines saying such bad things, it sort of pushed me to believing it couldn't be real, that it was something from the old movies. About when times were different."

Nicky took a few quick breaths and a gulp of coffee. Gibbs waited, trying to work out what Nicky was actually saying.

"So the three Marines were beating up a sailor, and saying bad things to him. How did you know they were Marines?"

"They were in BDUs. The new ones, I forget what they're called. They look like they came off a computer somewhere?"

"MARPATs," Gibbs supplied. He drank more coffee.

"Yeah, those," Nicky said. "They were wearing those, without identifiers. Lots of Velcro, no patches."

Gibbs nodded again. That was military standard: all patches on camouflage uniforms were Velcro-backed so they could be removed before washing. Helped keep them from fading too fast.

"We call them digi-cammies," Gibbs added when Nicky didn't continue.

"Digi-cammies," Nicky repeated, and behind the ski mask, his lips shifted into a small smile. "I like it."

Gibbs smiled back. "So then what?"

"They kept saying the bad things, and beating him up. They said they were going to 'teach you a lesson, show you how we deal with rot like you'." Nicky's voice dropped into a semblance of someone bigger, angrier. He shivered a little, and resumed his normal speech. "I was afraid, even if I really thought they weren't real. One time, this bad guy came and he was yelling and cussing and making threats, and I thought he wasn't real, so I just pretended he wasn't there, but he was, and he beat me up bad. So I didn't want anything to do with them you know?"

Gibbs nodded, made a go ahead gesture with his coffee cup.

"So I went back up to my room. But then the next morning, yesterday morning, the man with no uniform was still there. He was dead. But I still didn't think he could be real. I went to the VA, got my medicine, took it yesterday like I was supposed to. Then this morning, when he was still there again, and there were rats, and they were…" Nicky shivered again recalling the rats and their chewing. "Then I knew he was really real. I didn't know, before. Maybe I might have been able to do something. Can't imagine what, but maybe…" he shook his head, a bit dejected.

"If it was three on one, you probably couldn't have stopped them," Gibbs said. "Where did all this happen?"

"I stay in the old self-storage warehouse on First Street Northeast, near Florida Avenue. It's warm, and quiet, most of the time. No phones. No electricity, either. But I don't need it, usually. Wish there was a phone. Maybe I could have called for help."

"So you're saying there's a dead sailor in the self-storage warehouse on First Street Northeast?" Gibbs summarized. Nicky nodded.

"In the old receiving area, in the corner across from the stairs, where the streetlight shines in. They killed him, Agent Gibbs. But I didn't know he was real. I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Nicky," Gibbs said. "You said the dead man wasn't in uniform. How do you know he's a sailor?"

"He was wearing these," Nicky said. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a set of dog tags, letting them spill onto the table between them. Gibbs' eyes widened momentarily. While Gibbs had been convinced that the man in front of him believed what he was saying, he hadn't fully believed the truth of it himself. This changed things.

* * *

to be continued... a lousy place to break it, I know, but this section is actually almost 5,000 words, so I had to break it somewhere. I'm posting the next chapter shortly, if that helps.


	3. Chapter 2

**One Less - Chapter Two**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pen. He used it to poke at the tags until one of them was upright and facing the correct direction. Pushing them a little further away put them in range for Gibbs to read them without his glasses. Ferrara, Francis L. Blood type O positive. USN. Catholic.

"Why did you take them?" Gibbs asked. He pulled one of his winter gloves out of his coat pocket and slipped his fingers far enough into it that he could use it to scoop up the tags. He turned the glove inside out with the tags inside, and put the bundle back in his pocket.

"It was a long walk here. If I didn't have them with me, I might have forgotten about him, or forgot he was real, before I got here."

Gibbs nodded. He pulled out his cell and flipped it open. Nicky reached across and grabbed Gibbs' forearm for a second before dropping his hand, and his eyes, at Gibbs' disapproving look.

"Who're you calling?" Nicky asked.

"My team. To recover the body."

"Not the police?" he asked.

"No-o," Gibbs said, pulling out the single syllable. "Some reason you don't want me to call the police?" He held the phone in his hand without dialing.

"Um, they might be looking for me," Nicky said quietly. He looked down at his almost empty coffee cup.

"Why?" Gibbs said, again dragging it out.

"There might be a warrant on me. Because I didn't go to court when I was supposed to."

"And why were you supposed to go to court?" Gibbs asked.

"I stole something, from the 7-11."

"Booze?" Gibbs asked.

"No!" Nicky said, insulted. "I don't drink anymore. It was a sandwich. And some milk. I was hungry." He met Gibbs' eye.

Gibbs stared at him until he was certain Nicky wasn't lying to him. "Well, Nicky, I've never called the police on a hungry man, don't plan on starting now. You had breakfast yet?"

Nicky looked at him a moment longer, then shook his head. "No."

Gibbs dug out a twenty dollar bill and slid it across the table toward him. "I'll take an apple Danish. And a refill. You get whatever you'd like." Nicky picked up the bill with a pleased smile, and got in the line. Gibbs dialed Tony's desk.

"There's an abandoned self-storage warehouse on First Northeast near Florida Ave. Might be a body in the receiving area. Possibly a sailor. Go check it out. Call me when you know something." Gibbs hung up without further explanation. He drained his cup and watched Nicky in the line. He was holding the bill in both hands, like it might fly away.

Gibbs reviewed the conversation so far. Nicky said he'd gone to the VA hospital for his medicine. So he was a veteran of some kind. He'd mentioned hearing Marines call people terrible names himself in the past. Maybe he'd been in the Corps? It was hard to tell under the heavy clothes and the ski mask, but Nicky seemed to be not much younger than Gibbs himself. So probably a veteran of Desert Storm.

If DiNozzo called back to say they'd found something, Gibbs was going to have to start by eliminating the possibility that Nicky had somehow been involved. His gut told him things had happened pretty much like Nicky said – through the prism of his mental illness – but he would have to make sure that's what the evidence said.

"Here you go," Nicky said, returning to the table. He handed Gibbs a fresh coffee, pushed over a pastry on a paper plate, and carefully set out the change in a neat pile. Gibbs left it lay. Nicky put his own plate down: sausage and biscuits, a side of scrambled eggs. He pulled off his gloves and after a look around to see if anyone was paying him any attention, he rolled the ski mask up to rest on his brow. He avoided looking at Gibbs, instead concentrating on spreading gravy evenly over his sausage patties.

Gibbs looked Nicky over as he picked up his Danish. Nicky's hands and face had been badly burned. The misshapen eyelids and lips he'd seen through the mask was only the start of it. Several of his fingers were short one knuckle or more. Wide planes of pink scar tissue covered the backs of his hands and framed his facial features, covering his chin and disappearing under the scarf wrapped around his neck. His nose had been rebuilt, but not very successfully. His eyebrows were gone, and he had no other facial hair. What hair there may have been on his head was hidden under the rolled-up mask.

"Ugly, ain't it?" Nicky said, still not looking up.

"Must be nice, not to have to shave every day," Gibbs said and took a bite. At that, Nicky did look up, and he twisted his lips into a surprised smile.

"Never had that reaction before," he said.

"That happen in Kuwait?" Gibbs asked. Nicky froze, his fork half way to his mouth. He suddenly looked nervous.

"Who told you that? Do they talk to you about me?" he asked and looked around again. This time his eyes were frightened, and Gibbs hurried to reassure.

"It's what the 'I' in NCIS stands for, Nicky. I investigate, figure stuff out. You said you go to the VA for your medicine. So you're a veteran. The extent of the scarring says poor initial burn care, which means you weren't stateside when it happened. You're not as old as I am, and the scars are too old to be from the current Gulf War. That makes you a prime candidate for service during Desert Storm. Odds are if you were burned while overseas, it happened in combat. Connect the dots, and you were probably caught in some kind of fire or explosion while serving in Kuwait."

Nicky nodded slowly. "It was a mortar attack," he said. "Hit our barracks in the middle of the night. Bad intel on the neighbors. They weren't supposed to have the capability. Lost five of my friends." He paused a second, then shook his head and finished his bite. It was the most normal his voice had sounded since he'd started talking.

"You were in the Marine Corps," Gibbs said, going with his gut. This time, Nicky stared at him for a long moment before carefully setting down his fork.

"They do speak to you," Nicky said, and reached for his gloves. "I have to go now."

"No, Nicky. Wait. It's alright," Gibbs said, and reached carefully to take Nicky's wrist. Nicky's eyes widened.

"Semper Fi," Gibbs said softly. "A Marine always tries to do the right thing. For God, for country, for the Corps. Ooh-rah."

"Ooh-rah," Nicky replied under his breath. Then, a little louder, "Lance Corporal Dominic Masterson. You?"

"Gunnery Sergeant, retired, First of the First. Served in Panama and Desert Storm," Gibbs said. "We take care of our own, don't we?"

"We do. I would have. If I'd known they were real. I would have tried to do something. I didn't know, Gunny. I didn't believe it."

"I know," Gibbs said. "You're doing something now. You're doing the right thing."

Nicky nodded, several times in succession, then relaxed. When Gibbs was sure he wasn't going to bolt, he released his wrist.

"Eat your breakfast," Gibbs said, and Nicky picked up his fork again.

Gibbs said nothing more until he'd finished his Danish. Nicky ate his meal with obvious enjoyment. They were seated enough out of the way that few people took any notice of them, but everyone who did took a second look at Nicky. Some glanced quickly away as if embarrassed. A few openly stared. One group of teenagers pointed and snickered, until a glare from Gibbs made them take their drinks and flee. Nicky pretended to be oblivious.

"So how come you live in the warehouse? You could live in a veterans' home, if you're clean and sober."

"I am," Nicky said. "For almost nine years. Nobody believes me. But I'd had enough, you know? Too many good drugs, too much alcohol. That's why I'm crazy sometimes. Fried my brain."

"So why don't you stay there?" Gibbs asked. He was close to the bottom of his second cup of coffee and trying to draw it out until DiNozzo called back.

"I've tried it, a few times. But I don't like it there. They take and they don't give." He shrugged, scooping up gravy with a chunk of biscuit.

"What does that mean?" Gibbs asked.

Before Nicky could answer, Gibbs' cell rang in his pocket. Nicky started, looking around as if seeking the source of the ring. Gibbs retrieved the phone, held it up for Nicky's inspection, and answered.

"Hey Boss, DiNozzo."

"What'd ya got?" he asked.

"No body, but signs of a recent crime scene. I called Metro: They responded to a homicide here earlier this morning. Finished about an hour ago. Male in his 20s, no identification."

Gibbs sighed. "Meet me back at the Yard." He hung up.

"What do you say we go back to my office for a little while," Gibbs asked Nicky.

"Can't," Nicky said matter-of-factly.

"Why not?"

"Have to get over to St. Margaret's. It's Bible study night."

"We'll be done in plenty of time," Gibbs said with a smile.

"You don't get it," Nicky said. He wiped up the last of his gravy. "There's a nun there, Sister Emily. She lets me have lunch with the nuns sometimes, and if I clean up the preschool room and sweep out the church before Bible study, she lets me get a change of clothes out of the donation bin, and a hot shower."

"Okay. How about we make a deal?"

"What kind of deal?" Nicky asked, suspicious again, but not frightened.

"You come back to my office, talk to me and my team a little more about what you saw when the sailor died, and I'll see to it you get a shower, a change of clothes, and some new boots too."

Nicky frowned. "I usually work for what I get, when I can."

"This'll be work. You'll have to tell us everything you saw, everything you heard. Probably a couple times."

Nicky seemed to consider. His eyes widened as something occurred to him.

"Will I have to sit in the room with the one-way mirror? Like on Law and Order?"

"Nah," Gibbs said. "We don't do that to people trying to do the right thing. So what'd you say?"

"What about dinner?" Nicky asked. "If I have to tell the story a few times, I might not get back to the shelter in time for dinner."

"Now you're pushing it," Gibbs said with a smile. Nicky shrugged, unapologetic.

"Sometimes they run out, if you don't get there early."

"Alright. You come with me now, I'll get you to dinner on time."

"And a shower and change of clothes?" Nicky asked.

"And some new boots if you're patient," Gibbs agreed.

"Deal," Nicky said, and held out his hand to shake. Gibbs shook. They got up to leave, gathering their trash.

"Don't forget your change, Gunny," Nicky said, and scooped it up.

"You keep it," Gibbs said.

This time, there was no argument from the smaller man. He slipped the cash into his pocket and readied himself for the return to the cold.

* * *

to be continued...

There it is. The set up. You like? You no like? Let me know...


	4. Chapter 3

Note: We're about to start hearing about character histories and talking timelines. Since NCIS is a moving target, I had to pick a place on the character development timeline to start writing. I picked the moment when I started writing this story. It was sometime in the winter of Season Six, after the team was reunited following Director Shepard's death and the events which culminated in "Cloak" and "Dagger," and before the questions of Ziva's loyalty began surfacing. I don't involve Director Vance in this story, because quite frankly, I couldn't and still can't figure out what the writers have planned for him. With new character development occurring every Tuesday, I didn't want to write him one way and have canon turn him into something else. So believe it to be early in 2009, and follow the timeline accordingly.

Second note: There's a tale to come which I unashamedly stole from the novel "Supercarrier" by George C. Wilson. The novel was billed as an inside account of life aboard the aircraft carrier USS John F. Kennedy, and the story that opens the book is one of the most amazing stories of impulsive courage I've ever read. Since the story supposedly actually happened, I feel not at all bad about retelling it here. If it was a fictionalized account, then my apologies to for Mr. Wilson for the steal. It's still a fabulous story. Now, back to it...

* * *

**One Less Chapter Three**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

The first obstacle came back at the security checkpoint. Nicky balked. Those things were dangerous, he said. Emitted radiation or something. After a quiet word with Henry, the security officer agreed to use the wand and let him walk around the detectors. That was how he did it at the VA, Nicky said. When the wand beeped at his pockets, Nicky produced a handful of coins, a pair of nail cutters, a Zippo lighter with the Marine Corps seal on it – very similar to the one Gibbs carried – and a battered old Buck knife with a three-inch blade. Just in case, Nicky said, though he did not indicate in case of what. Gibbs said he would hold on to that, just in case, and Nicky was agreeable.

He didn't like the elevator, either. He didn't say anything, but Gibbs could tell. Nicky hesitated before he got on, then parked himself in the back corner and nervously tapped his fingers against the wall as it rose to the third floor. When it stopped, he pushed forward so fast that Gibbs just stepped aside and let him out.

Nicky stopped in his tracks. He seemed immediately overwhelmed. Gibbs looked at the squadroom from Nicky's point of view and thought he understood. The large open room was two stories high, with skylights running the length of it and a wall of windows overlooking the Anacostia River and Southeast Washington beyond. A set of stairs toward the back of the room led to the executive offices and the silver outer wall of MTAC, the high-security Multiple Threat Assessment Center. The main floor was filled with desks and personnel coming and going, and a low buzz of activity seemed to emanate from the walls.

"It's alright, Nicky," Gibbs said.

"Who picked the colors?" Nicky said, and Gibbs had to stifle the sudden urge to laugh. That's what had stopped him? The walls were in shades of orange, rust and tangerine, casting a citrus glow over everything.

"It was probably the cheapest paint they had. You get used to it." Gibbs led him over to their desks in the center section of the squadroom. DiNozzo and David were looking at something on DiNozzo's computer, McGee was reading a report at his own desk. They all three looked up when Gibbs rounded the corner.

"Agent DiNozzo, Officer David, Agent McGee." He indicated each of them in turn. "This is Nicky. He's a witness in our new case."

"New case?" DiNozzo asked. He stood and pulled over a chair for Nicky.

"The one you're about to get us from Metro." He took out the glove with the dog tags inside and transferred the tags to an evidence bag he pulled from his desk. Once the bag was sealed, he tossed it across to McGee, who caught it neatly.

"The body Metro picked up this morning was wearing these. Pull up his SRB."

McGee examined the tags through the plastic, then got to work looking for a service record to match the name.

"What did Metro find?" Gibbs asked of DiNozzo as he took off his coat. He unholstered then unloaded his government-issue Sig Sauer and stowed it in his right-hand desk drawer. In his long career, he'd actually needed his sidearm while inside the building a few times, but regs said all firearms had to be secured so he did it almost without thought. His second-in-command returned to his own desk and reached for his PDA. Anthony DiNozzo was in his late thirties, tall and lean, with male-model good looks and an air of confidence to match. He was casually dressed today: Khaki pants, slightly darker khaki button-down shirt, untucked. Since returning from an involuntary five-month exile to Agent Afloat status, DiNozzo had been pushing the envelope a bit in his manner of dress. Gibbs couldn't care less. Long as his work was professional, his wardrobe was irrelevant.

"Male, mid 20s, no identification, apparent cause of death was assault. Multiple head wounds, significant blood loss at the scene. They haven't started the autopsy yet."

Gibbs nodded. Their medical examiner would be pleased. DiNozzo continued.

"No sign the body was moved after death. They collected lots of forensics, but the location's popular for drug users and the homeless, so most of the samples will probably be irrelevant."

"Got him, Boss," McGee said. He stood and picked up the remote for the plasma screen monitor behind Gibbs' desk. McGee was a little taller than DiNozzo, who was himself a little taller than Gibbs. Unlike DiNozzo, Tim McGee was dressed as had become his habit in recent years: Tan sport coat, brown pants, white shirt, brown tie. No fashion plate, that one. But he didn't have to be. He was an MIT graduate, a computer maestro, and the author of a series of best-selling crime novels. True, he was a bit of a nerd, but nerds were in these days. Gibbs suspected McGee had as many women in his life as he wanted, whenever he wanted. In response to DiNozzo's constant big-brother-like tormenting, McGee had gone through a period of experimentation awhile ago. He'd tried a series of hair styles, wardrobes, and put-on attitudes that had left Gibbs a little dizzy. As his confidence in his place on the team had solidified, McGee had finally found himself and settled down. He kept his hair short and his wardrobe understated. DiNozzo still treated him like the little brother he loved to torture, but that, too, had its place and Gibbs allowed it. To a point.

McGee pointed the remote at the plasma and pushed a few buttons. A military ID photo appeared on the screen. A fresh-faced kid, brown brush cut, brown eyes, serious expression, but with a twinkle of pride in his eye that was visible even in the grainy picture.

"Francis Louis Ferrara, Petty Officer Third Class. Age 25. Assigned to the Aircraft Carrier Theodore Roosevelt. Which is currently…" he leaned down over his keyboard to look it up.

"In Norfolk, prepping for a 12-month cruise to the Persian Gulf," Gibbs supplied.

"Right," McGee said, as always more than a little surprised at the things Gibbs seemed to know. He straightened up. "He was reported UA when he didn't show up for duty this morning. Officer of the Deck says he didn't check in Sunday after a 24-hour liberty."

"Is that the man you saw, Nicky?" Gibbs asked, turning to him. Nicky stood, moved closer to the plasma. He carefully examined the ID photo, cocked his head to the side, considered.

"Yeah. Only he looked more dead when I saw him."

"Okay. DiNozzo…"

"Send the photo over to Metro, confirm ID, then go get the evidence they gathered. On it Boss."

Gibbs stared at him for a moment, to see if there was anything else. There was nothing.

"Ziva, you're with me. Nicky, you too. McGee, see what else you can dig up on our victim."

Ziva stood and Nicky followed her, Gibbs bringing up the rear as they headed to the back stairs. Until recently, the Israeli woman had clung stubbornly to her Mosaad roots: She'd acted and dressed as if she would return to the Middle East any day. But an undercover operation that had sent her back overseas last year had made her realize how much she wanted to stay in America, and since her return, she'd finally started to assimilate. She was styling her hair in a more Western fashion, and had stopped wearing khakis and wool every day. Today, it was a peasant blouse in shades of cream and hip-hugger black jeans that flattered her slim figure and long, dark hair. Rounding the corner of the landing, Gibbs caught Nicky giving an appreciative second look at her back side and crowded up behind the smaller man.

"She's out of our league, Nicky," Gibbs whispered over his shoulder. Nicky jumped a little, turning back to give Gibbs a guilty look. Gibbs smiled at him. Ziva looked back, glaring at both of them. Gibbs chuckled just a little. He hadn't been kidding. She'd been trained by Mossad – the Israeli Special Forces – as a soldier, assassin and torture master. Even with his extensive military training and hands-on experience, not to mention the five inches and 50 pounds he had on her, he wasn't sure he'd best her in a no-holds-barred fight.

They descended to the first basement, home of their team's forensics technician Abigail Sciuto. As usual, Abby had some kind of heavy metal head banger music blaring so loud Gibbs felt the impact of the sound against his chest. He walked directly through the main lab to her office in the back and flipped the volume down.

"Hey!" Abby said. She'd had her back to them, her head inside one of her machines, and the sudden loss of volume surprised her. She straightened and turned to them. "Oh, Gibbs. Didn't hear you come in."

"No kidding, Abby." The Goth woman was in rare form today, wearing a black and white plaid mini-skirt, a black t-shirt with a grinning white Jolly Roger wearing a pink hair bow on the front, wide spiked collar with dangling chains, and five-inch black platform boots that ended just below her knees and put her at Gibbs' eye level. Her hair was in high pig tails, coming out of the top of her head. The white lab coat over it all added the only touch of professionalism. She was in her early 30s, and had been working with them for more than 10 years, since just after graduating Georgia State University with a dual Masters in Forensics and Criminology. Though her chosen lifestyle made most people dismiss her as brainless, she was actually the smartest person Gibbs knew. Her forensics skills were the best he'd seen, and he was as confident in her abilities as he was in his own. If it could be found, she'd find it. If she said it was so, he could take it to the judge. He'd grown exceedingly fond of her over the years, and indulged her in many ways, not the least of which was his tolerance of her off-the-wall wardrobe and her strange way of running her lab. He'd gone to bat for her with three successive agency directors now, and he would continue to do so as long as he worked here. If his team was a family, Abby was the favorite child.

"No Caf-Pow?" Abby asked, seeing his empty hands.

"No work," Gibbs replied. He typically brought her a jug of her favorite super-caffeinated soda every time he came looking for her help. He'd discovered early on that a little bribe went a long way with her. But with the dry spell they'd been under, he figured she'd forgive him. She glared lightly at him, then turned her attention to Nicky.

"Who's your friend?" she asked with a smile. Nicky's eyes were wide under the ski mask, taking in all of Abby.

"This is Nicky. He's a witness in a case we just got. I need you and Ziva to take him shopping." Ziva looked at him sharply, but Abby's eyes lit up.

"Shopping? Awesome, Gibbs. Shopping for what?" Abby said. Gibbs pulled out his wallet and extracted a credit card.

"He'll need a change of clothes, and some new boots. Use this." He held out the card.

"Cool, Gibbs. We can go down to Saks in Georgetown." She tried to take it from his fingers, but he pinched it.

"The sport shop across from the main gate will be fine, Abby," Gibbs said.

"Aw, Gibbs, where's your sense of style? Never mind," she said quickly, and giggled. "I forgot who I was talking to."

Gibbs ignored the implied insult, let the card go, and turned back to Nicky. "This is Abby. She's our forensic scientist. She'll get you what you need, then when you get back, you can shower and change, and then we'll talk. Fair enough?"

"Okay," Nicky said. "Hi Abby."

"Hi Nicky. We're going to have so much fun."

"Don't take more than an hour. When you get back, there'll be work to do."

"Cool!" Abby said, and bounced a little on her platforms.

"Ziva, a moment?" Gibbs said, and gestured out to the hall. Ziva, still confused, followed.

"Shopping, Gibbs?" Ziva said when they were out of earshot.

"It was the deal I made him to get him to come in."

"But why me, Gibbs? Shopping?" she repeated.

"I need McGee on the computers. I need you with Abby, just in case."

Ziva nodded her sudden understanding. Of all of them, Abby had always been his favorite, treated like a precious daughter. Of course he would not want his Abby alone with an unknown.

"I understand," she said.

"Keep him out of the squadroom about an hour. He made me a deal, so I don't think he'll bolt, but if he tries, call me."

"Who is he?" Ziva asked.

"He was a Marine Lance Corporal, served and wounded in Desert Storm. Homeless now. He's got some kind of psych history, but he's taking medicine. Just keep an eye on him."

He turned to go back in the lab, then stopped. "Try to keep an eye on Abby, too. I don't want to have to mortgage my house to pay for this."

"Got it," Ziva said with a smile.

After they left, Gibbs went back to the squadroom. DiNozzo was already gone.

"What'd you find?" he asked McGee as he returned to his desk.

"Ferrara was a rising star. Enlisted right out of high school, trained as an Aviation Machinist's Mate and was assigned to Carrier Air Wing 8 aboard the Roosevelt. Twice promoted early, becoming group leader only two years in. He passed tests for Petty Officer Third, looks like in June of 2005, but before he could take the promotion, he was injured in a flight deck accident that resulted in his right foot being crushed. Surgeons tried to reconstruct it, but the damage was severe, and then he got a post-surgical infection. His leg was amputated midway between the ankle and knee. Navy Medical wanted to discharge him, but he fought it and won, thanks in part to two recommendations, one each from the Roosevelt's retiring and incumbent Captains. The incumbent asked that he be assigned as the Captain's Yeoman on his return to duty." McGee looked up. "That a good position, boss?"

Gibbs shrugged. "For some. It's a clerical position, like a civilian secretary. The Captain's Yeoman is his personal assistant. If the Captain requested him personally, he must have thought he was a better than average sailor. Usually means he's done something impressive. What do you have on the accident?"

McGee went back to his computer. "Some type of atmospheric systems failure in flight caused an F-18 crew to become confused and disoriented. The RIO was unconscious, the pilot was awake but not making much sense. Air boss talked him down, but he missed the target, came in at a bad angle and the catch cable snapped from the cross tension. The plane was loose on deck in heavy seas, rolling with the swells. Deck crew couldn't get it stopped. They'd tried throwing chocks under its wheels, but the plane's momentum kept pushing them out of the way as it rolled."

McGee paused for a second: "I'm reading directly from the incident report now. 'The out-of-control plane had already damaged six other aircraft and part of the Roosevelt's control tower and had a clear path over the side of the carrier when Airman Ferrara, having tied two sets of wheel chocks together, ran underneath the moving plane, wrapped the chocks around the starboard wing wheels and held them in place with his foot. The wheels bumped over the double set of blocks and crushed Airman Ferrara's right foot. But his actions slowed the F-18's momentum enough that the Roosevelt's deck hands were able to chock the aircraft's other wheels and get it stopped, saving the lives of the crew and preventing further damage or injury to other personnel.' Wow."

Wow indeed, Gibbs thought. That was the kind of fast thinking and willingness to sacrifice that would attract a Captain's attention. If the Super Hornet had gone over the side with the crew on board, they'd have both drowned, and the Navy would have been out 32 million dollars worth of aircraft.

"He get a commendation for it?" Gibbs asked.

"No. He was reprimanded for recklessness." Gibbs looked at him sharply, then shook his head. Of course. Only in the Navy.

"Who signed the reprimand?" Gibbs asked. McGee checked.

"His crew chief." Gibbs nodded. That would make sense. Regulations said he had to be reprimanded, but if the Captain was impressed, he wouldn't want to have it done by anyone too high up the food chain.

"What else you got?"

"He was medically cleared to start in the Yeoman's position when the Roosevelt sailed for the Gulf late in 2006, about 18 months after the accident. Finally promoted to Petty Officer Third right before they left. He settled well into his new assignment, and according to evaluations, was a natural at it. Capt. McNally, the incumbent at the time of the accident and current Ship's Captain, has filed…" McGee counted silently. "…six commendations for exceptional service in the last fourteen months. Never missed a day of duty since returning from the injury."

"And the Captain didn't report him missing?"

More keystrokes. "Nothing in our files. Roosevelt's Special Agent Afloat is David Fredrick."

Gibbs didn't know him. But the report of a sailor missing two days in Norfolk might not necessarily have reached them at headquarters in DC, even if it had been filed promptly.

"Bio?" Gibbs asked. McGee tapped his keys.

"Most recently from Los Angeles, single, no children. His parents are his next of kin. Father is a retired Chief Petty Officer. He's got a brother two years older, also in the Navy, and two younger siblings, sister seventeen, brother fourteen."

"Anything else?"

"Not really. Clean driving record, no civilian record. His older brother's a sonar chief, Petty Officer First Class, also aboard the Roosevelt."

Gibbs nodded. Since Metro hadn't made the identification, they wouldn't have contacted the family yet. Which meant the notification of Ferrara's death hadn't happened. That was first order of business.

"Contact CACO, so they can get moving on the notifications." McGee nodded, and picked up the phone. Once again, Gibbs silently sent thanks to the Powers That Be that he'd never had to do that for a living. Navy Casualty Assistance Calls Officers spent all day every day dealing with the families of sailors and Marines who'd died while in service. They were assigned the unenviable task of informing spouses, parents and children that their loved one wasn't ever coming home. Then they spent days, weeks, or months holding hands and trying to move families through the stages of grief toward acceptance. Gibbs had accompanied CACOs on those notifications exactly three times when men under his command had died, and he prayed he'd never have to do it again.

With a mental head shake, Gibbs called down to autopsy. Their medical examiner, Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard had also been underworked, spending more time out of the morgue than he usually did. Thankfully, he was in.

"Ah, Jethro. I was hoping you'd call," Ducky said when he picked up. "Young Mr. Palmer and I are getting quite bored."

At that, Gibbs had to smile. When he'd gone down there last week, it had looked like spring cleaning time. ME's assistant Jimmy Palmer had been up to his elbows in bleach and rags, and it didn't take a master reader of expression like Gibbs to see that the kid was begging for anything that would get him out of this.

"Metro caught a homicide this morning, body with no ID. We've since made him as a sailor. You'll need to go pick up him up. DiNozzo's over there clearing it now."

"Did they already start on him?" Ducky asked, a note of hope against it clear in his voice.

"Nope. He's all yours, Duck."

"Wonderful. We'll be on the way." Gibbs hung up.

When McGee was done with his call, he looked up expectantly. He knew there was a reason Gibbs hadn't told him to go to Metro with Tony.

"Our witness. I need to know everything you can find out about him," Gibbs said. "He was an active duty Marine during Desert Storm. Lance Corporal Domenic Masterson."

"Anything else?"

"Combat wounded. And he goes to the local VA for psych medication. That's all I've got."

"It's probably enough," McGee said, and went to work.

* * *

To be continued...

If you're reading, why not review? If you're not reading... you're not reading, so never mind. :o)


	5. Chapter 4

**One Less - Chapter Four**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs put on his glasses and pulled out his hard-copy of the NCIS station roster. He quickly found the listing for the office aboard the Roosevelt. Agent David Fredrick answered. After he identified himself, Gibbs asked him what he knew about Francis Ferrara.

"Ferrara," Fredrick repeated, and Gibbs heard computer keys clicking. Was he the only one who used paper anymore?

"I've got two, Michael and Francis." Gibbs silently sighed, and repeated his request.

"Francis… Yeah, I got a note about him. He's been UA since 0800 this morning."

"Last known?"

"Deck Officer had him leaving the ship Saturday midday. Hasn't been seen since."

"You file a missing persons report?"

"Not yet." Gibbs gave him a beat to explain himself, and when he didn't, prompted him.

"Why not?"

"He wasn't on duty yesterday, so technically his unauthorized absence started less than four hours ago."

"Who reported him UA?" Gibbs asked.

"Capt. McNally. Contacted me late yesterday afternoon when he couldn't find Ferrara on board. The Captain said Ferrara had been released for 24 hours leave, scheduled to be back by noon. But he wasn't technically on duty," Fredrick repeated.

"Captain's Yeoman is always on duty, unless the Captain grants leave," Gibbs said. "What about when he didn't show up this morning?"

"I told you, Gibbs, it's only been a few hours. Besides, he's not the kind of sailor you spend a lot of time worrying about," Fredrick said. Gibbs' eyes narrowed as he considered that.

"Why not?" There was a long pause this time.

"It wouldn't surprise me if he just walked away one of these days, went AWOL. He's kind of odd. A marginal sailor, really."

"Really? He's the Captain's personal Yeoman and you say he's only a marginal sailor?" Gibbs could sense there was something there, but he didn't have enough to know what.

"Capt. McNally gave him the position because he felt sorry for him. The Captain has some history with Ferrara's father, served with him in Desert Storm. He and his brother are the main support for the family. He was injured in a deck accident and the Navy was going to discharge him, so McNally cut him a break."

"So a Captain's Yeoman from a military family with a history of fighting to keep his job doesn't return from shore leave and you don't think that warrants a missing persons report?" Gibbs growled.

"Hey, Gibbs, don't start on me. If we reported as missing every sailor who skipped a day's duty, the Navy would sink under the paperwork. If he doesn't reappear by tomorrow morning, I'll file the report."

"He's dead," Gibbs stated. There was the sound of a quickly indrawn breath.

"How?"

"Beaten to death in a warehouse in D.C. Saturday night. Metro Police recovered his body this morning."

The silence from the other end grew heavy before Fredrick spoke again, his voice subdued. "Has Casualty Assistance contacted his family yet?"

"We're just getting into it." Gibbs said.

"I'll tell the Captain."

"You do that."

"You want me to talk to the brother as well?" Fredrick asked.

"No. Let CACO handle the notification. We'll be down later to interview him. Gather everything you have on Francis and have it ready for pick up when we get there."

"He goes by Frank. And you don't need to come all the way down here, Gibbs. I'll interview the brother and send you whatever you need."

"No," Gibbs said sharply. "We'll handle it."

"Fine. Look, Gibbs, I'm sorry. I just…"

Gibbs dropped the phone back into the cradle. A rising star had been murdered, then lay in a warehouse in Southeast for two days, with no one looking for him, because an NCIS officer hadn't bothered to file a piece of paper. Son of a…

"I think I found him," McGee said, interrupting Gibbs' rising ire. McGee stayed at his desk and transferred his monitor image to the plasma so Gibbs could see it while he worked. The first picture was an old military ID. Nicky had been farm-boy handsome before his burns. He'd had strawberry blond hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, slight dimples showing in his barely-there smile.

"You sure that's him?" Gibbs asked.

"He's a Corporal, but he's the only Domenic Masterson who served in Desert Storm." Gibbs looked at him, surprised. With more than 200,000 active duty Marines, there was more than one of almost everybody. There'd actually been a couple dozen men named Leroy Gibbs in the Marines in the fifteen years Gibbs had served. He had been the only Caucasian with that name, though.

McGee shrugged. "We got lucky."

The image changed to a printable copy of a computerized Service Record.

"Uh, Gibbs? Look at this," McGee said. Gibbs stood and moved close enough to read the document on the screen. Computerized service records ran in reverse, with most recent activity on the top of the form. The first line on the record was Nicky's discharge date. Eighteen years ago, only a few months after Gibbs' own discharge. The second was a notation marking the award of a Silver Star, the third-highest award the Navy gave enlisted personnel, along with a promotion to Corporal.

"Show me the citation," Gibbs said, and McGee nodded. He worked for a minute, then pulled a page off the printer and held it out. Gibbs took it and read silently.

It was the mortar attack Nicky had spoken of. Five Marines killed in the initial impact and subsequent fire. Lance Corporal Domenic Masterson, already clear of the building and suffering a broken arm, broken collarbone and three broken ribs, returned to the burning barracks twice to rescue two of his brother Marines before the building collapsed. One man subsequently died, but the other man lived thanks to his actions. Awarded the Silver Star for gallantry and selfless risk of life in actual combat with an armed enemy force.

"The promotion came after he left active duty. Maybe that's why he didn't mention it," McGee offered when he saw Gibbs was done reading.

"Send me his SRB, then find out what he's been doing since his discharge," Gibbs said. He returned to his desk, the citation still in hand.

"Hey boss?" Gibbs looked up at him again.

"Don't you have… I mean, didn't you earn…" McGee ground to a halt, and Gibbs held his stare until the younger agent thought the better of continuing and got back to work.

He knew what McGee had been trying to ask: Hadn't he been awarded a Silver Star? He had, but it wasn't something he talked about. It had happened a long time ago in another life. A moment came when he did what he had to do, and the Marine Corps thought it was worth a medal. He could have lived without it. The gratitude of the brothers whose lives he'd saved, not to mention that of their wives and children, had been plenty of reward.

He'd been a Marine for fifteen years, from his first summer after high school until a mortar attack in Kuwait almost ended his life early in 1991. He'd joined the Corps to get away from his small town life, but once he was in, he knew it was what he was born to be. Gibbs had thrived, rising rapidly through the ranks to become a Gunnery Sergeant. He supposed he'd been some kind of hotshot. He'd always known he was damn good at his job. But the fact was, he'd just really loved doing it. Even looking back at what it had cost him to be a Marine, to be away from his family when they needed him most, he still loved the Corps. It had broken his heart to be told by a surgeon at Bethesda Naval Hospital so many years ago that the damage to his leg was too severe, and he would never be able to return to active duty. He was still grieving the loss of his wife and eight-year-old daughter, and to be told he'd also lost the only thing he had left to love… it had nearly killed him again.

But he'd gotten through it. Probably not over it, but through it. Joining NCIS had helped. He'd discovered he was really good at that, too. Serving the members of the Navy and Marine Corps in this manner was right on par with being in the field, and it had its advantages over active military duty: People hardly ever tried to blow him up anymore. It still happened occasionally, but nowhere near as often as it used to.

His screen beeped, and Gibbs' attention was drawn back to the matter at hand. He scrolled to the bottom of Nicky's service record – where his history with the Marine Corps started – and began to read.

"Where's Abby?" DiNozzo asked as he returned to the squad room less than an hour later. He dumped his coat on his filing cabinet and stowed his gun, then shook his head like a sheep dog, small droplets of wet flying in all directions from his short brown hair. Gibbs internally sighed. DiNozzo was an extraordinarily talented investigator, a natural born leader, and one of the few people alive in whom Gibbs put his full faith and trust. But sometimes he acted like a 10-year-old.

"Out. What'd you get from Metro?" Gibbs asked. He had only just returned from his coffee dealer and was gingerly sipping from a large cup of piping hot fresh. It had started to snow outside, a fine mist of wet flakes that wasn't yet accumulating. DiNozzo must have parked outside either here or at Metro, and of course he wouldn't have been wearing a hat if he didn't have to. Might have messed up his hair.

"Three boxes of miscellaneous forensic samples, couple dozen photos, clothes he was wearing, personal effects, no wallet, no ID."

"What personal effects?" Gibbs asked. DiNozzo pulled a page out of the file he'd brought up with him.

"Timex dress watch, St. Christopher's medal, three gold necklaces in different lengths, orange bandanna, Roosevelt Challenge coin, bank debit card with no name on it, little less than forty bucks."

"Challenge coin? And Metro didn't peg him as military?" Unbidden, Gibbs' hand slipped into his right pocket, where he found his own coin: a heavy weight piece of tarnished bronze-colored metal about half-again the size of a silver dollar. The coins were commonly carried by members of military units, and had in recent years become popular among para-military organizations as well. When confronted or 'challenged' by another member of the same unit, anyone not able to produce the coin had to pay the forfeit. Typically, a round of drinks. Gibbs' was from NCIS. It had replaced the one from his last military unit which he'd carried for years after he'd left the Corps. This one had been in his pocket virtually daily since his former boss had given it to him right before his boss left the agency for good.

"Detective Sellers said they thought about it, but you can get them on eBay these days, so it doesn't mean as much as it used to. It would have been a long shot and he was still working missing persons when I called."

Gibbs nodded, a small feeling of sorrow creeping in. You could get almost anything on eBay these days, or so he'd heard. Military uniforms, battle ribbons, medals, insignia, weapons. Hell, they were probably just lucky bin Laden hadn't figured it out yet.

"What else?" Gibbs asked.

"Nothing. Except…" he hesitated.

"What?" Gibbs demanded.

"He was dressed kind of, well…" DiNozzo cleared his throat and pulled another piece of paper from the file, ignoring the growl he saw forming on Gibbs' face.

"Orange calfskin trench coat, pinstriped white dress shirt, unbuttoned, red midriff tank top, very tight black jeans, ripped in all the right places, black patent leather platform boots that Abby's going to love. Orange calfskin fedora found nearby."

Gibbs cocked his head slightly, imagining that ensemble. "He didn't leave the Big Stick dressed like that," he said, referring to the USS Roosevelt by its nickname.

"I'm sure he didn't," DiNozzo said, and risked a look up at Gibbs. He wasn't sure his boss got what the outfit implied.

"Um, boss, you do know..."

"That chances are better than even that Petty Officer Ferrara was gay? Yeah, I know." He fell silent.

"Which could be why he was killed," McGee spoke up from his desk. Both DiNozzo and Gibbs gave him a 'no kidding' look, and he reddened slightly. As the youngest member of their team, McGee was still insecure in many ways. He'd come to them from an administrative position at Norfolk Shipyard, and he'd spent the first year at the Navy Yard in a constant state of fear that he'd be sent back. It had driven Gibbs nearly to distraction, trying to sort through McGee's phobias and insecurities to find the skilled agent he knew was there. In the ensuing four years, McGee had matured significantly, and only occasionally did he give Gibbs reason to call him out.

"Crime scene photos?" Gibbs said, turning his attention back to DiNozzo.

"Coming right up," DiNozzo said. He took an envelope out of the file folder, dumped a photo card out of it and slipped it into his computer. A moment later, a wide shot photo of a warehouse loading area, Petty Officer Ferrara's body in the near background, appeared on the plasma.

"Metro received an anonymous 9-1-1 call from a payphone down the block from the warehouse, reporting an assault victim. Patrol units and EMS arrived, found him dead. They did a cursory search of the area, but found nothing probative."

"Nothing probative," Gibbs repeated. "They do any investigating yet?"

"Just the area search. They assigned it to a detective about 20 minutes before I called."

DiNozzo quickly scanned through the photos. Wide and narrow shots of the body in place, several of blood patterns and partial shoeprints around the body, wide area shots of the entire warehouse, and several tight shots of various items of interest Metro must have catalogued as evidence. DiNozzo had been right: most of it would probably turn out to be indigenous junk.

"Print me a copy of the wide shot of the body," he told DiNozzo, who hit a few buttons. The printer between DiNozzo's and McGee's desks sprang to life.

"DiNozzo, wait for Abby. Then you and Ziva keep our guest entertained until I get back. McGee, grab your gear, you're with me."

"Um, Boss? Entertain him?" DiNozzo asked as McGee jumped to. DiNozzo handed the photo to Gibbs.

"He can stay in the lab with Abby if she's okay with him, but keep him out of her way and away from the evidence. I promised him a shower, let him take a long one. Entertain him, DiNozzo. You might try feeding him. Don't let him leave."

"On it, Boss," DiNozzo replied, still looking a little uncertain.

* * *

to be continued...

Hmmm... well?


	6. Part 5

One Less - Part Five

by joykatleen

* * *

Gibbs and McGee pulled up in front of the self-storage warehouse Nicky had described. It was one of many abandoned, dilapidated structures in this part of town. The District of Columbia ran the gamut from high-end architect's dreams in Georgetown to some of the country's worst residential ghettos. This area had certainly seen better years. It was mostly industrial, but the remains of some small shops and even a few houses could be seen here and there.

"We're being watched," McGee said as he shut the passenger door on the blue government sedan they'd arrived in.

"Uh huh," Gibbs said softly in response. He, too, had seen movement from several doorways and broken-out windows in the buildings around them as they pulled up.

Gibbs closed his own door. "They're not likely to bother us. Just stay sharp."

They both shouldered their equipment packs and headed into the warehouse. The light snow and overcast sky diminished whatever light might have otherwise come in through the few small, high windows. Most of the interior was in shadow. Gibbs pulled out a heavy-duty Maglite and clicked it on, letting its powerful beam lead the way.

Inside the receiving area, Gibbs shone his light around. The place was remarkably tidy, with none of the piles of junk and trash he would have expected in an abandoned building. He supposed – he hoped – that the Metro cops had gathered up everything that had been on the floor and that it was all now sitting at NCIS waiting for Abby. Though tidy, it was still far from clean. Dirt, oil, and other unidentifiable stains marked the mostly dry floor. There was a faintly foul smell in the air that Gibbs didn't want to try to identify.

Gibbs held up the picture he'd had DiNozzo print, turning until he found the view that matched the photo. He moved forward slowly, carefully placing every step so as not to disturb any evidence that might still be there. When he was within a few feet of the large blood stain that marked the place Petty Officer Ferrara had come to rest, he stopped and shone his light in a slow 360 degree circle.

"Take some shots in here," Gibbs told McGee. "Make like we don't have any yet."

"Got it, Boss," McGee said. He set his pack on a relatively clean spot on the floor and took out his camera. He started taking photos, his flash filling the space like lightning.

Gibbs left him to it and began to explore the receiving area. The building was six stories of small storage rooms, the upper floors formerly accessible by four large service elevators, two at each end of the first floor. The rear of the receiving area contained a loading dock with five roll-up doors. A small office sat in one corner, a staircase to the upper floors beside it. Gibbs could only see the one staircase. That must have been where Nicky was when he saw the assault. Gibbs went over that way and took out his own camera. He shot several frames looking into the receiving area from a few steps up. The view from there to where Petty Officer Ferrara's body was found was unobstructed: Nicky would have had seen everything. Gibbs could see the streetlight pole outside the window where Nicky said the light was shining through. When it came on, it would illuminate the area around the bloodstain nicely. Which meant that Nicky would probably be able to identify the attackers, when Gibbs and his team came up with some suspects.

A sudden sound from the stairs made Gibbs look up sharply and reach for his Sig, resting on his hip outside the bottom of his NCIS field jacket. In the same breath, he spun and shone the light up into the dark. The beam caught a retreating leg as someone disappeared around the corner of the upper landing. Gibbs stayed his hand, leaving the gun in its holster.

"Hey! It's alright!" Gibbs shouted after the figure. He heard the footsteps fade into the darkness and swung the light away. The leg he'd seen definitely hadn't been wearing fatigues, so it probably wasn't anyone he was looking for. Whoever it was, the person most likely lived here. Might be a witness. But Nicky hadn't mentioned anyone else being present during the beating.

McGee had moved in his direction at Gibbs' shout, and had his hand on his own gun.

"Just one of the locals," Gibbs said. He stepped down out of the stairwell. "You done?"

"I think so. Yes," McGee said.

"See anything?"

"Blood stains, nothing damp enough to collect. Nothing else. Hopefully Metro got everything we need."

Gibbs gave a small snort that told McGee what he thought of that. "Alright, let's wrap it up. There's nothing here."

* * *

Back at headquarters, Gibbs went to autopsy first. Dr. Mallard had been with NCIS almost as long as Gibbs himself. He was a small man, around 5'6, somewhere in his 70s but still in great physical shape with a full head of gray hair. His job at the agency was actually a retirement position: He'd served a full career in the British Navy before coming to America in the late 1980s. Ducky, as he was known by all, had been Gibbs' team's medical examiner and occasional field medic for many years, and the two men had long ago become friends.

"Jethro, you're a little early," Ducky said as he looked up at the sound of the doors swooshing open. "I've only just begun work on our newest guest."

"Just wanted to be sure you didn't have any problems getting him here."

"Quite the contrary. Metro was pleased to be able to strike one unidentified body off their to-do list."

Gibbs moved next to Ducky, standing at the middle of three autopsy tables in the room. A young male body was laid out in front of him. The medical examiner had cleaned him up and taken multiple samples from the surface of his body, but had not yet started to cut.

"This is who you picked up from Metro?" Gibbs asked. Ducky looked at him through his plastic face shield, eyes curious.

"Yes. Is he not who you expected?"

Gibbs looked again. The young man's face was badly damaged, misshapen, swollen and purple. He noted the missing right lower leg, then focused on the man's dead eyes, and finally nodded.

"That's him. I wasn't expecting the damage."

"He was badly beaten," Ducky said. "Likely over several hours before he died. Tissue doesn't swell after death, and some of this has aged."

"If the beating was short, but he lived for awhile after it stopped, would that account for the swelling?" Gibbs asked. He had a bad feeling in his chest.

"Perhaps," Ducky said. "I'll know more when I finish."

"Time of death?" Gibbs asked.

"Dr. Thompson, one of the District's Deputy Medical Examiners, tentatively established it as between 48 and 56 hours ago, depending on how cold it got."

"Saturday night?"

"It would seem. I'll be able to narrow it further…"

"When you finish," Gibbs completed the thought. "Let me know." He took another look at the young sailor and headed out.

Gibbs made a detour to the commissary and bought Abby a large Caf-Pow before returning to her lab in the first basement. He was pleased this time to hear her music at a background level. That meant she had company.

"Abby," he called as he entered.

"Gibbs! You're back!" she squealed and clomped over on her platforms. "We had so much fun, you should'a come with us. Look!" She made a sweeping gesture toward the other side of the lab. DiNozzo and David were sitting on Abby's high swivel chairs, and standing between them with a hand resting on the back of Ziva's chair was Nicky. He was looking down at the floor, shifting slightly from foot to foot. He was nervous, Gibbs realized, then took in the rest of him.

Nicky was wearing the new clothes Gibbs had bought him: Blue jeans, a bulky multi-colored wool sweater with a dark turtleneck underneath, boots very similar – if not identical – to the ones Gibbs himself was wearing. He had an NCIS ball cap on, with no ski mask or beanie. He looked clean and neat, and still nervous.

"Well, what do you think?" Abby prompted. Gibbs handed her the jug of Caf-Pow.

"Looks fine to me. What do you think, Nicky?" Gibbs asked. Nicky shrugged, an embarrassed grin appearing on his misshapen face.

"She made me try on everything in the store," Nicky said.

"Not everything," Abby objected. "I just wanted to be sure you got something nice. It's not every day the boss man hands out his credit card." She moved back over next to Gibbs and took a long pull on her drink. "We also got him a couple of pairs of long-johns and some other necessaries, some gloves, a scarf, a hat, and a really warm jacket."

Gibbs flinched slightly, imaging the bill she'd run up. Abby pulled his credit card and a long receipt out of her lab coat pocket, handing them both to him before leaning in to whisper in his ear: "You didn't pay for all of it, Gibbs. Relax." Then she backed off and twirled away.

"I've got something for you," Abby said as she abruptly changed the subject.

Gibbs turned to Nicky. "You ready to earn your keep?"

"Sure," Nicky replied.

"I'm going to have you talk to Tony. It'll be good to have a fresh set of ears on it. That alright?"

"Um… can Ziva and Abby come?" Nicky asked. Gibbs smiled inwardly but his face betrayed nothing.

"Abby's busy. But Ziva can come. You tell them everything you remember. They're probably going to need to go over it a couple times, alright?"

"Alright," Nicky agreed.

"Here." Gibbs pulled one of his cards out of his wallet and scribbled his cell number on the back. "If they don't treat you right, you give me a call, okay?"

"Okay," Nicky said and took the card, examining it for a moment before tucking it into his pocket.

"Take him to the conference room, Tony."

"This way, Nicky." He ushered Nicky and then Ziva out ahead of him.

"What do you have?" Gibbs asked Abby when they were gone.

"Petty Officer Ferrara was a busy guy on Saturday." She turned to one of the computers on the center console of the open lab and started tapping keys.

"He used his debit card almost everywhere he went, so it was easy to track him. He took a cab from the Norfolk shipyard, picked up at 12:15. Stopped on the way at Blue Bell Florist, bought $50 worth of mixed flowers to go. The cab dropped him off at a residential address in Portsmouth, tax rolls say the house belongs to Michael and Constance Ferrara."

"His brother's house," Gibbs said, remembering what McGee had told him.

"Next stop was a Denny's Restaurant in Portsmouth. No cab, so someone must have driven. Meal for four paid for at 1405 hrs, two ordered off the kids menu."

"Probably his nieces or nephews."

"He must have taken them out for lunch. Why only one other adult?"

"His brother's on board the Roosevelt. Petty Officer First."

"Oh, that's sweet. The flowers must have been for his sister-in-law."

"Sweet," Gibbs repeated skeptically. Abby turned to face him.

"Sure, haven't you ever bought flowers for a lady you weren't trying to get into bed?"

"Bought flowers for you, haven't I?" Gibbs reminded her.

"That you have. And it's sweet every time you do it. Moving on." She turned back to the computer and tapped a few more keys.

"Another cab came to the house just before 1500. Took him to the Newport News Amtrak Station, where he caught the 1620 to D.C. The train arrived only 20 minutes late, putting him into Union Station at 2045. He took another cab from the station, stopping to pick up some unmentionables at a drug store near the convention center before being dropped off in Georgetown at 2115."

"Unmentionables?" Gibbs asked.

"You know, young man, alone on a Saturday night, going out? Unmentionables, Gibbs." Abby was grinning at him, and Gibbs shook his head.

"I get it. What next?"

"He got $200 cash back on the purchase and didn't use the card for anything but cab fare the rest of the night. But he moved between four different locations in the District. The time difference between cab rides was…" more tapping, then: "An hour and 15, 45 minutes, little under two hours, then the last cab at 0115 hrs. He was probably bar-hopping."

"Where'd the last one drop him off?"

"In the Dupont area, 1500 block of 17th Northwest, at 0130."

"What's there?" Gibbs asked. Abby looked at him, her eyes raised.

"You don't know?"

Gibbs considered it for a moment, then frowned. "Should I?"

"Probably not your kind of neighborhood. It's like, gay central, Gibbs. There's probably a dozen gay-oriented establishments in that block alone."

"Any other reason why he'd be in that neighborhood at that time of night?" Gibbs asked. Abby looked incredulous.

"C'mon, Gibbs. Did you hear what he was wearing? Doesn't 'don't ask don't tell' end at death?"

Gibbs sighed. "If we don't have to put it in the report, I want to keep it out. It's no one's business."

Abby punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Nice, Gibbs. Very nice." She returned to the computer and worked for a minute. "According to Google Maps, there are 516 businesses and almost 600 residential units within easy walking distance of that block. Take your pick."

"Good. Give me a list of businesses that would have been open at that time of night. Note the 'gay-oriented establishments.' We're going to have to do some canvassing."

"Coming up." The printer started up. "Metro hadn't started working the forensics, so we've got plenty to work with, if any of it's related. There's fluids on his clothing, blood for sure, don't know whose it is yet. Some other liquids, but I haven't had a chance to run it through Major Mass Spec yet."

"Any other DNA?"

"Maybe. I'll try."

"Anything else?" Gibbs asked.

"This." Abby reached into one of several plastic evidence boxes that had been lined up on the workbench and pulled out a baggie with a small piece of paper inside. She held it up for him.

"What is it?" Gibbs asked, peering through the plastic. The paper was tinged with blood, two words written large but indistinct.

"Piece of notebook paper, torn from a small spiral notebook. Metro pulled it out of his shirt pocket. There's two words on it, written in black sharpie. Says 'One Less'."

"One less?" Gibbs asked. "I've heard that phrase before."

"It's from the commercial," Abby said. When Gibbs looked confused, Abby elaborated. "You know, 'I'm gonna be one less, one less!" she sing-songed. Still no recognition. She rolled her eyes.

"It's the slogan for a new vaccine for HPV, the virus that causes two of the most common forms of cervical cancer. It's recommended for sexually active women and girls starting at age nine."

"Nine?" Gibbs said, shock clear in his voice. "Sexually active nine-year-olds?"

"It takes awhile for full immunity to develop. So they recommend it early, so by the time girls start to experiment, they're already protected."

"Yeah, but nine?" His own daughter, Kelly, had been eight when she was killed. She'd still thought boys were yucky.

Abby shrugged. "Girls know more earlier these days than they ever did before. Lots of parents won't let their girls get vaccinated because they don't think their daughters could possibly be sexually active. I mean, really." She shook her head. "By the time I got into high school I'd already…" Gibbs put a hand over her mouth.

"I don't want to know." He paused for a moment, then dropped his hand and asked: "Did you get the vaccine?"

"Too old." She shrugged. "But don't worry. I always have plenty of unmentionables."

Gibbs closed his eyes for a second. He was not going to go there. Not where his Abby was concerned.

"I haven't seen the commercial. But I've still heard that somewhere before. One less." He tried to focus, then shook his head.

"Is that it?"

"For now. I've got a ton of stuff here, most of it's probably trash. I'll keep working on it."

"Alright. Call me if you get anything more." He headed out.

* * *

Gibbs and McGee headed for Norfolk to talk to Petty Officer Ferrara's brother. They'd called ahead to confirm that CACO had completed the notifications, and that the elder Ferrara was aboard. He would be waiting for them, the duty officer assured him.

In a rare departure from normal, Gibbs let McGee take the first shift in the three-hour drive. The snow had thickened a little, enough to be noticeable, not yet enough to impair visibility or slicken the roads. Gibbs sat in the passenger seat with his head back and his eyes closed, letting his thoughts carry him. This case was going to be a nightmare. The Military's policy of simply ignoring the presence of gays in its ranks had been a problem from the moment it was instituted. Don't ask, don't tell, my ass, Gibbs thought. Gay service members had served in silence alongside their comrades for generations. Served honorably and with distinction. Gibbs had read somewhere that there were more than a million gay veterans in the United States, and about 65,000 who were in active service. Yet the moment it came out that their sexual orientation was anything other than man loves woman, they were dishonorably discharged and lost it all. More than 12,500 soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines lost to that asinine policy since it was instituted in 1997.

Gibbs had served with three gay Marines that he knew of. Two he'd liked, one he could have lived without. But he'd counted all three among his brothers, still did. The idea that who a man chose to sleep with could have any effect on his ability to serve his country was ludicrous, and it was one of the few things that truly pissed Gibbs off about the country he served and the Corps he loved.

If it became widely known that Petty Officer Ferrara was gay, chances were pretty good the level of cooperation he got from anyone in uniform would drop to nothing. Everyone was afraid of guilt by association. Chances were even better that if did come out, Petty Officer Ferrara would be dishonorably discharged posthumously and any benefits due his family would be lost. Suspicion would fall on the elder brother for hiding Ferrara's sexual orientation, and he might also lose. Somehow, Gibbs had to identify the three men Nicky had seen and bring them to justice, while at the same time try to keep Petty Officer Ferrara's private life private. And if they'd killed him because he was gay, as Gibbs suspected, he'd have to somehow keep that from becoming public as well. A damnable nightmare.

Pushing that aside for the moment, Gibbs considered the paper Abby had shown him. 'One Less.' That meant something. He knew he'd heard it before. And not in connection with any television commercial.

Unbidden, Gibbs' mind travelled down that road. Abby. It wasn't like he didn't know she was sexually active. Hell, she was an adult, had been for as long as he'd known her. Listening to her joke with DiNozzo and McGee, he knew she had her share of flings. God knows she'd taken advantage of past conquests to help them get what they needed on many occasions. But still, hearing her talk about 'unmentionables' like she was discussing breakfast: That was too much.

Ducky had introduced Gibbs and Abby almost 11 years before. The medical examiner had read an advance copy of her forensics thesis and invited Gibbs to sit in on her defense. While much of the science had been over his head, listening to her defend her ideas had been amazing. The level of intelligence coming out of the mouth and mind of such a strange girl had been a breath of fresh air when compared to the cookie-cutter, high-falluten scientists he'd been working with since joining NCIS. Ducky had taken them both out to lunch afterwards, and they'd hit it off. When she applied for a position as a forensics tech four months later, Gibbs had personally convinced the director they had to hire her. Two years after that, she'd been running her own lab.

They'd only grown closer over time. They'd been through some things together that rivaled the toughest challenges he'd ever faced as a Marine. Horrible cases that had damaged them all in one way or another, life-threats to friends they both loved, the death of colleagues. He'd almost lost her last year, when an abusive former boyfriend had beat her nearly to death in her apartment. It hadn't helped any when they discovered the boyfriend was also a serial rapist they'd been hunting for weeks. It had taken a long time and a lot of work before Abby went out on her next date. He supposed he ought to be happy she was dating again, but still. This was his Abby he was talking about. He was pretty sure he'd be perfectly happy if she never looked at another man again.

He'd done a lot of thinking, while Abby was working through her trauma last year. His own love interest at the time, Army Lt. Col. Hollis Mann, had told him he treated Abby as if she were his lost daughter. In a way, he supposed it was true. If Kelly had not been killed by a drug dealer out to eliminate the only witness to a murder – Gibbs' wife Shannon – she would have been only a couple of years younger than Abby. He certainly treated Abby like a favored child, letting her get away with things no other member of his team would dare try. And in that mindset, it freaked him out to think of Abby sleeping with anyone. Ever.

One Less. The phrase still bugged him. He knew he'd heard it somewhere before. With his thoughts focused inward, and McGee driving smoothly through the light snow, Gibbs let himself drift.

* * *

to be continued...


	7. Part 6

**One Less Part Six**

**by joykatleen**

They stopped in at the NCIS office on board the Roosevelt first. Fredrick, it turned out, was a smallish black man with close-cropped hair and dark toffee-colored skin. He stood four inches shorter than Gibbs, though he was broader through the chest and shoulders. Probably from too much time spent in the shipboard weight room. Fredrick tried again to rationalize his failure to file the missing persons report, but Gibbs wasn't interested. He had little to say to the agent he felt had failed a sailor so badly. He let McGee do the talking while they gathered the files they needed, then headed for the executive level where they were to meet with Petty Officer Ferrara's older brother. Agent Fredrick showed them into the Captain's conference room, then left with a glare after Gibbs declined his offer to sit in on the interview.

Less than a minute after they sat, the door opened again and a young female Airman Apprentice ushered in Petty Officer First Class Michael Ferrara. He stopped just inside the door and stood at attention, his eyes at middle distance.

"At ease, Petty Officer Ferrara," Gibbs said, and the man fell into a not-quite-casual at ease stance. The Airman closed the door softly as she withdrew.

Looking at Michael Ferrara, Gibbs knew there was only one word that would adequately describe him: Average. Average height, average build, bland face, short dark hair cut identically to every other sailor aboard ship, dull brown eyes. He was wearing work blues that weren't exactly dirty, but had clearly seen a day's work. His boots had probably been shined this morning, but were now covered with scuffs. The only thing that stood out about him was the look on his face. He was trying hard to seem impassive, but there was grief etched deeply there.

"Have a seat," McGee invited. Ferrara took the chair closest to the door, folded his hands on the table in front of him, and again let his eyes settle on nothing.

"Special Agents McGee and Gibbs, NCIS," McGee began. Gibbs had decided to let him take the lead, at least initially. The kid needed some practice dealing with victims' family.

"I understand CACO spoke to you this afternoon?"

"The Captain did, sir," Ferrara answered. In those few words, the agents heard sorrow, anger, and just the slightest hint of mistrust.

"You have our sympathies," McGee said. Ferrara nodded once, sharply, but said nothing.

"We're running the investigation into your brother's death. What can you tell us about him?" McGee asked.

"He was a good brother, sir. And a good sailor." He fell silent. They waited, but Ferrara offered nothing more.

"Did he have many friends in his unit?" McGee asked.

"He got along pretty good with everyone."

"Anyone in particular he liked to hang out with that he might have mentioned?" McGee tried again.

"No," Ferrara said. Gibbs made a small motion with his head that McGee correctly interpreted as an instruction to stop talking. They sat in silence for almost a full minute.

"Have we done something to offend you, Petty Officer?" Gibbs asked.

"No, sir," Ferrara replied.

"Do you want your brother's killers caught?" Gibbs said.

"Yes, sir."

"So why the uncooperative attitude?"

"I'm answering all your questions, sir," Ferrara said. His eyes flickered to meet Gibbs' momentarily, and slid away. He was hiding something. He wasn't a suspect, but he was being intentionally uncooperative. There was only one thing Gibbs could think of that would cause that. The nightmare thing. He had to get through that wall first.

"Your brother's SRB shows he was an above average sailor, good at his job, liked by his peers and his superiors," Gibbs said. "On Saturday, someone beat him to death. Based on his appearance and where we know he spent his last night, we have an idea why it happened. But even if we're right, it will not make a difference in how hard we work to find who did it." Gibbs stopped and let that sink in before continuing.

"It will not make a difference," he repeated. "Your brother was a credit to his county. We will find out who killed him with or without your help. But it might go faster if you tell us what you know."

Ferrara's gaze finally met and held Gibbs'.

"What was he wearing, sir? When you found him?" Ferrara asked. His voice was softer, lower.

"Nothing he'd want his shipmates to see him in," Gibbs answered.

Ferrara took a breath and held it for a moment before slowly letting it out. His shoulders dropped slightly and his face fell from the stoic mask he'd been trying to hold.

"I have – my family has – a house in Portsmouth. Frank keeps some clothes there, to change into when he goes out. "

"Do you know who he went out with on Saturday?" McGee asked.

"No one, sir." When Gibbs let a frustrated look appear, Ferrara raised a hand. "When he goes cruising, he goes alone."

"How often did he go cruising?" Gibbs asked. Ferrara's eyes narrowed, looking for hidden meanings, and Gibbs was silent while he looked. He'd find nothing.

"Not often," Ferrara said. "It wasn't easy for him, to get away. He sent me an email Friday, asking if Connie and the kids were going to be home, if he could go visit. It was kind of our code, to let me know he was going out."

"Connie's your wife?" McGee clarified.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know where he liked to go when he went out?" McGee asked.

"He stayed out of Norfolk. Too much chance he'd be seen by someone he knew. On a short night, he liked to go out to Virginia Beach, or to Chesapeake. If he had the time, he'd go into D.C. and spend the night. He really liked the atmosphere."

"That's where he was found," McGee said. "Less than two miles from Dupont."

Ferrara nodded. "There were a few after-hours clubs he liked there."

"Can you tell us which ones?" McGee asked. Ferrara's eyes shifted to Gibbs.

"Does this have to get out, sir? I mean, I'm not ashamed of my brother, but…"

"It's no one's business," Gibbs said. "If we can keep it out of the reports, we will. We may not have a choice, but you have my word we'll try."

Again, Ferrara seemed to examine Gibbs, then he nodded again.

"Thank-you, sir. The only ones I know about are JR's Café, and The Fireplace." McGee wrote down the names.

"Do you know if anyone in his unit knew about his orientation?" Gibbs asked.

"They shouldn't have. He went out with the guys and hit on women often enough to keep up appearances."

"Anyone been giving him any trouble?"

"Nothing related to that. Just the usual stuff. He was Captain's Yeoman, so he took a lot of shit for that. Excuse me." His gaze shifted to McGee, who smiled slightly. "He lived a bit of a separate life because of it. But he took it in stride. He loved his job, sir, and he loved working for Capt. McNally. The Captain was a big part of why he was able to stay in the Navy."

"So as far as you know, no one on board knew he was gay?" McGee asked. Ferrara flinched a little at that, hearing the word spoken aloud.

"Far as I know. He kept it quiet. He knew what would happen if he didn't." Gibbs nodded and gave that a moment before continuing.

"You have any theories on what might have happened?" Gibbs asked.

"I assume it was a mugging. Or some homophobe found him alone," Ferrara said, and they could all hear the bitterness in his voice.

"His wallet and ID were gone, but he had cash in his pocket," McGee said.

"They're at the house," Ferrara said. Gibbs gave him a quizzical look and he explained. "His wallet and ID. He usually only carried his debit card and some cash. Didn't want to risk losing his wallet in the wrong place, or accidentally flashing his military ID to the wrong person."

"So why did he leave his dog tags on?" McGee asked, genuinely curious.

"In case he got killed," Ferrara said matter-of-factly. "He knew it was dangerous, being who he was. He tried, he really tried, to be normal. But you can't change what you are. He almost didn't join the Navy because of it. But I convinced him to try." Michael Ferrara's voice broke at that. Gibbs and McGee sat in silence, letting him collect himself.

"When was the last time he had a serious relationship?" McGee asked when Michael seemed ready to continue.

"He met someone while he was in rehab from his accident. They were pretty tight for awhile, but Frank stopped talking about him a couple of months ago."

"His name?" McGee asked.

"Ben. I don't know his last name. He was another sailor, wounded by an IED in Iraq. They were both at Bethesda. They exchanged letters for awhile after Frank came back to full duties. There might be some still in his rack."

"Could someone have found the letters, read something they shouldn't have?" McGee asked.

"No. Ben was discharged due to his injury, so he wasn't in as much danger from being outed, but he wouldn't have put anything in writing that might have been traced back to him. Or that could have hurt Frank."

"Do you know why they broke up?"

"No. But it wasn't anything dramatic. Frank talked about him less and less, and then I just didn't hear about him anymore. Besides, he lives in Los Angeles."

"I understand," McGee said. "We're just covering our bases. Maybe something he told Ben might help us."

"No one since he stopped seeing Ben?" Gibbs asked.

"Not that I know of. We hadn't had a lot of time to talk. It's a big ship, and we have different duties. We're scheduled to deploy in a few days, and there's a lot to be done. We didn't even talk in person that often. Mostly by email and text message."

"Can I get his cell number and email?" McGee asked. Ferrara recited them.

"Any chance your wife might know what his plans for Saturday night were?" Gibbs asked.

"Connie called me on Sunday afternoon. Frank told her he was going into D.C., he'd be back on the morning train. He would have had to stop by the house to change back into his civvies before returning to the ship. When he didn't show up or call, and she couldn't reach him on his cell, she called me. We talked about where he might have been going. But he didn't mention anything specific. He just told her he was going to the city, he'd be back in the morning."

"Did he usually carry his cell phone?" McGee asked.

"Usually," Ferrara answered. "Didn't he have it with him?"

"It wasn't found with him."

"Well he didn't leave it at the house."

"We'll see if we can track it," McGee said said.

"Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?" Gibbs asked, wrapping the meeting up.

Ferrara shook his head. "No, sir."

"Alright. We'll stay in touch. You think of anything, call me." Gibbs handed him one of his cards.

"I will," Ferrara said, and stood to go. He paused, resting a hand on the back of his chair.

"The agent on board didn't seem to be taking it very seriously, when he talked to me on Sunday after Capt. McNally reported that Frank was missing. There's no way he should've known, about Frank's life, but it felt like he did."

"Did your brother ever deal with him before?" McGee asked.

"Not that I know of. It was just a feeling I got."

"We'll look into it," Gibbs promised. With a nod of thanks, Ferrara left. McGee put away his PDA and Gibbs flipped his notebook shut.

On a hunch, Gibbs decided to visit the ship's Chaplain. They found Cmdr. Father Andrew Thayer in the ship's tiny chapel. After introducing them and ensuring that the priest knew that Ferrara had been killed, Gibbs asked about Ferrara's religious practices.

"He was very devout," Father Andrew offered readily. "As devout as a military man can be, at least. He attended Mass and confession regularly, and was a very knowledgeable Bible scholar. Could have easily become a Religious Programs Specialist, or even a Chaplain, had he wanted to."

"Did he ever talk to you about personal issues? Outside of confession," Gibbs clarified when he saw the priest getting ready to object.

"Occasionally. He had been troubled by something for some time, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. We often discussed forgiveness for mortal sins."

"Mortal sins?" McGee asked. As a way of getting the priest to open up, it was a good question and Gibbs silently approved.

"The Catholic Church recognizes many common human failures as mortal sins. Anger, envy, jealousy, greed, disrespecting your parents, even 'carousing' is one of the biggies. But considering the Navy and the young men and women we attract, I doubt those were the types of sins that were weighing on his mind."

"So what type would have been?" McGee continued.

"I don't know precisely. He never said. Not even in confession, Agent Gibbs," he said, and smiled. Gibbs gave him a small one back. "But consider one of the highest of the mortal sins: Murder. The US Navy has been directly or by proxy killing people on a regular basis since the country was born. As members of the Navy, that sin belongs to all of us."

"But that wasn't what was troubling him," McGee confirmed.

"It wouldn't appear so. Mostly, we talked about New Testament wisdom versus Old Testament constraints. He would often ask about the modern application of both Old and New Church law. Something I must admit, I am no expert in. I, like most Catholic priests in America, tend to preach Christ's message of tolerance and acceptance over rigid rules of religion. While the Holy Father might not approve, it gets us through the days."

"Did he ever talk about anyone giving him trouble?" Gibbs asked.

"It took him awhile, after he returned from his injury and became Captain's Yeoman, to return to the level of comfort he'd had with his shipmates in his prior rating. He was seen by many of the enlisted sailors as a sell-out to the officer corps. Many of those who'd worked with him before the accident rode him about that. More than once he talked about the wisdom of his decision to return to the Navy. But the truth was, he loved it here. And after awhile, his shipmates relaxed and he was able to settle."

"Anything more recent?" McGee asked.

Father Andrew shook his head. "Not that I know of. Like I said, he was troubled, but it wasn't anything as simple as personnel issues. I made sure he knew I was ready to listen, and kept hoping he would open up to me." He sighed. "I hope he's finally found his peace."

to be continued...

Don't seem to be getting many reviews on this one. Is anyone still reading? Let me know...


	8. Part 7

**One Less Part Seven**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

They spent the next hour interviewing people who knew Ferrara. It was the same story all around: he was a nice guy who did his job and kept mostly to himself. The officers who served close to Capt. McNally seemed to know more about Ferrara than the men he shared quarters with. Which would make some kind of sense, Gibbs figured, since a Captain's Yeoman spent most of his waking hours with the executive staff. But none of them had any ideas on why he'd been killed, or had any knowledge of anyone giving him trouble. Among the sailors who shared quarters with him, only the two whose racks were above and beside Ferrara's seemed to have anything personal to say about him. They both said he was friendly, could hold his own when they played penny-ante poker, and spent a good part of his off time either reading or working out in the hangar bay. When he'd first become Captain's Yeoman, one of the sailors told McGee, they'd been nervous around him, figuring their normal pattern of talking crap about the officer corps would get back to the Captain. But Ferrara had proved their concerns groundless. He didn't take part, but he didn't take offense either, and nothing anyone said ever came back to bite them in the ass. Over time, their discomfort faded and he was once again as much one of the crew as he had ever been. A few of the sailors acknowledged they'd spent several evenings on liberty with Ferrara when they were in various ports, but could only say that he was kind of quiet, didn't drink to excess, and was shy around women, rarely making a score.

They searched Ferrara's personal space on the ship – his rack – and found mostly the usual things a sailor away from home kept near. Letters and photos from family and friends were taped to the ceiling of the small space and tucked under his mattress. A crucifix was pinned to the wall above his pillow. A Vince Flynn novel with a post-it marking a spot two-thirds of the way through was under his pillow, along with a khaki-covered and obviously well-read Bible. A small teddy bear with a rosary around its neck was tied to one of the uprights with a red, white and blue ribbon.

His locker told them little more. Uniforms, extra boots, two sets of civies, three more paperbacks. Toiletries. What Gibbs identified after a moment as a running prosthetic. He picked that up and examined it. The running surface resembled a curved blade with a rubber grip on the bottom. The outside of the socket was painted with a stylized US Navy crest. The inside was smooth plastic with compression foam at the bottom and around the upper edge of the socket. Noticing something odd about the foam at the bottom, Gibbs pressed his fingers against the spot, and it gave. A small cut-out space, about two inches by three-quarters of an inch by half an inch deep, with a piece cotton batten stuffed inside.

"McGee?" Gibbs called. McGee looked up from where he was paging through the books. "What do you make of this?" McGee stepped over and looked.

"No idea. I can't think of what would go there."

"Could it be for some kind of battery pack?" McGee held out his hands and took the prosthetic, examining the place where the blade met the socket.

"It's not electronic. There wouldn't be any need for it."

Gibbs returned the leg to its resting place, storing the anomaly away for future reference. He finished the search but found nothing else of interest. They gathered up Ferrara's personal items for future investigation and eventual return to his family and headed topside.

As they approached the checkpoint at the ship's gangway, the deck officer stopped them. "The Captain would like to see you before you leave, sirs," he said. "If you have a few minutes."

"We'll be right back," Gibbs agreed, gesturing toward the car with the box he held in his hands. The officer nodded, and Gibbs and McGee loaded Ferrara's things and the files Fredrick had given them into the sedan. Returning to the checkpoint, they met with same Airman who'd brought Michael Ferrara into the conference room. She escorted them back through the carrier to another door two down from the conference room. She knocked smartly on it, and when bid enter, opened the door and gestured them inside.

It was the Captain's private study. The room was about half the size of the conference room, containing a desk with two chairs facing it, a wall of bookcases, several filing cabinets, and a sideboard that Gibbs knew would contain the only alcohol allowed onboard.

"Gentlemen, thanks for coming." Capt. McNally got to his feet behind his desk. He wasn't a tall man, probably 5'10, but he was well-built. His biceps strained the material of his khaki uniform blouse when he pushed himself upright, and there was no sign of the middle-age spread that afflicted most fleet officers the further away from the front they got. His head was completely bald, though from hair loss or by choice, Gibbs couldn't tell. The man was young for a ship's Captain, the youngest Captain of an aircraft carrier in the fleet, Gibbs knew. He'd read an article about this guy a few years ago and remembered being impressed. He'd graduated first in his class at Annapolis, became an aviator and graduated TOPGUN with the highest scores ever recorded to that time. McNally was flying combat missions over Iraq while Gibbs was on the ground in Desert Storm, and had a confirmed strike record of almost 98 percent. As a commander, he'd lead Strike Fighter Squadron 213 in the initial response to the attacks of September 11th. He was promoted to Captain in 2006, and the Roosevelt was his first command.

"Can I offer you a drink?" McNally asked as he moved over to his sideboard. McGee looked at Gibbs, seeking guidance.

"What do you have, sir?" Gibbs asked.

"A little of everything. What's your pleasure?"

"Bourbon," Gibbs said. "McGee?"

"Uh, the same," McGee said. The Captain poured a short shot into each of three glasses and passed them around. When he was again seated behind his desk, he took a sip and set his glass down. Gibbs sipped at his own glass and from the corner of his eye, saw McGee do the same. The younger agent winced and choked back a cough. Gibbs and Capt. McNally exchanged wry smiles before the Captain spoke.

"What can you tell me, Special Agent Gibbs, about the death of my Yeoman?"

Gibbs was not surprised the Captain knew who he was. He wouldn't be much of a Captain if he wasn't aware of every visitor who set foot on his ship, and their purpose.

"Very little, sir. He was found this morning in an abandoned self-storage warehouse in Washington. It appears he was beaten to death, sometime on Saturday night."

"Any suspects?"

"Not yet. We have some information that may lead us to the killers, but it's still early in our investigation."

"Killers? Plural? You have a witness? Or forensics from multiple sources?"

Gibbs considered the Captain, and how much he should say.

"Permission to speak off the record, sir?" Gibbs asked.

"Whatever you say will not leave this room, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded. "We have a witness. He claims three Marines were responsible."

Capt. McNally frowned and leaned forward over his desk. "Marines from my carrier group?"

"Impossible to know at this point. There's no shortage of military personnel in and around Washington. Could have been Marines from anywhere. Might have just been men in fatigues. Like I said, sir, it's early."

"Is there anything I or my staff can do to help?" Capt. McNally took another sip from his tumbler.

"We'll need a list of everyone who was on shore leave on Saturday night, in case it was someone Petty Officer Ferrara knew," Gibbs said.

"Not a problem. But it's not going to help. TR's complement is 3,200, plus another 2,500 in the air wing. Most of them have been with us at least one cruise, so just about everyone aboard could be said to have known him. Also, two-thirds of the crew are being housed in shore barracks or off-base housing during the refit. So I'll only have records of who among the carrier-based third was ashore."

Gibbs frowned his frustration. Of course it couldn't have been that easy.

"Nonetheless, it might give us a place to start."

"I'll have the logs pulled." McNally took another sip of bourbon and seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking.

"That boy was something special. A fine sailor even before his accident, and since he returned to duty he's worked twice as hard as anyone in my crew. It was like he was trying to earn the right to stay in the Navy. Hell, I wouldn't have cared if he'd lost both legs to the hip: he was the best adjutant I've ever had. Smart as a whip, handled everything I threw at him with grace and skill. Not to mention he was one hell of a debater, and not afraid to stand up for what he believed in, even against the crowd, or against my senior staff. More than once he changed my opinion, and several times changed conditions on this ship for the better. I'm going to miss him on many levels."

McNally drained his glass and set it down on his desk with a bang. He looked like he was going to continue, but changed his mind. Instead, he rose and moved across to one of the bookshelves, where he started looking for something.

Gibbs spoke again. "Sir, I've read Petty Officer Ferrara's SRB, including the commendations you wrote him, and he does sound like one hell of a sailor. But I also heard that he might have been perceived by some as… 'odd' and 'marginal' were the words used. We also heard that he might have been troubled about something recently." Gibbs waited for the Captain's reaction. What he said next, and how it was said, would tell Gibbs a lot about Ferrara's back story.

McNally turned to face them. His expression was hard.

"Frank was a good sailor. He did his duty with pride and dedication. He sacrificed a lot to serve his country, and I was proud to be his Commanding Officer. He was in no way unstable, nor was he in any way unfit for duty in this Navy, from the day he arrived on this ship until the last time I saw him on Saturday morning. You keep that in the front of your mind, Special Agent Gibbs, and you find out who did this to him."

"Yes sir, we will."

McNally nodded, once, then his expression softened. "He had seemed a little… distracted in recent weeks. Nothing that affected his performance, I just got the sense that he had something on his mind. I asked him about it on Friday, but he shook it off, said it was nothing. I had hoped that his time ashore would give him a chance to resolve whatever it was." McNally sighed.

"Do you know where he was going when he left the ship?" McGee asked, joining the conversation for the first time. Gibbs thought his voice was a little hesitant, even for him, and wondered if his youngest agent wasn't a little intimidated by their surroundings.

"He said he was going to visit his brother's family. They live in Portsmouth. Beyond that, I don't know."

McNally returned his attention to the bookshelf. He found the book he was looking for and pulled it down. Opening it only slightly, he removed a photograph which he looked at for a moment before turning to hand it to Gibbs.

It was a picture of two men and four young boys, all decked out in fishing gear. The youngest of the children appeared to be about five or six, the oldest maybe 10. The younger of the two adults bore a striking resemblance to the man in front of him, and Gibbs took a closer look. It was in fact a younger Capt. McNally.

"That's me and Senior Chief Joseph Ferrara, Frank's father. He was a mechanic with our squadron for years. Retired after he broke his back falling off an engine lift, about three years after that picture was taken. The youngest boy is Frank's older brother, Michael. You were speaking to him earlier?"

Gibbs nodded his agreement, and McNally continued. "Frank was only a toddler at the time. The oldest boy is my son, Nathanial. He's used his mother's maiden name since he joined the Navy. Didn't want his old man's reputation to affect his career, for better or worse." McNally paused, a pleased smiled passing briefly over his face. "The family moved to Los Angeles after Joe retired, and I didn't see them again until after Frank's accident." He stopped again.

"You know about the accident that took Frank's foot?" McNally asked.

"Yes, sir," Gibbs said. He sensed where this was going.

"Nate was the pilot on the F-18 that Frank stopped from going over the edge. I didn't know Michael or Frank were even in the Navy. I'd almost forgotten about them. Joe and I had been friends, but after he retired, we drifted apart. I was at sea, involved in my career, and he was virtually home-bound in LA. After the accident, when I went to the hospital to see the sailor who'd saved my son and his RIO, I ran into Joe. I'd been told Frank's name, but I never made the connection." He held out his hand for the picture, and Gibbs handed it back.

"He saved my son's life. A debt I will never repay. He was a good sailor and a good man." McNally tucked the photo back into the book and reshelved it. He faced them again. "Does anything else matter?"

"Not unless it impacts my investigation, sir."

McNally held Gibbs' eye. When he found what he was looking for, he nodded and sat back behind his desk.

"Is there anything else, gentlemen?" he asked.

"When did you report Petty Officer Ferrara missing?" Gibbs asked.

"I couldn't find a readiness report I needed Sunday afternoon. When he didn't respond to my hail, I sent a runner looking for him. Took about an hour to confirm he wasn't aboard. I called the deck officer to see when he'd returned from liberty, and when I was told he had not, I asked Michael's crew chief to talk to him, see if he knew anything. He didn't. I made the report to Agent Fredrick about 1700 hours."

"What was his reaction?"

"He said he would file a missing persons report with NCIS and with Norfolk Police." At Gibbs' silence, Capt. McNally frowned. "Did he?"

"No sir. Our first indication that Petty Officer Ferrara was missing was the discovery of his body this morning."

"Very well," McNally said, and Gibbs could see that was far from the end of it.

"Would you like me to speak to the director?" Gibbs began. He was already primed to make an issue out of it. The support of a Navy fleet captain would certainly help.

"No thank you. I'll handle it. Please keep me informed on the status of your investigation."

"Yes, sir. We will." McNally nodded and stood, Gibbs and McGee following suit. Gibbs resisted the urge to salute and instead offered his hand. Capt. McNally shook it firmly. Gibbs drained his glass and set it on the Captain's desk before turning to go. McGee also thanked the Captain and shook, then set his barely-touched drink beside Gibbs' glass.

McGee was virtually vibrating as they headed down the passage away from the executive quarters. When he was certain they were alone, he leaned in and spoke quietly to Gibbs.

"Capt. McNally knew Petty Officer Ferrara was gay," he said.

"Yes. He did," Gibbs agreed. "What else?"

McGee considered as they moved further down ship.

"Agent Fredrick knew, too. Only he didn't like it."

"Nice catch," Gibbs congratulated him.

"What's going to happen to him?" McGee asked.

"He'll be reassigned. Most likely before start of business in the morning. The request of a Carrier captain goes a long way with the SecNav." Two officers in uniform approached, and they stood aside as the men passed. "He'll probably spend some time in the penalty box."

"Penalty box?"

"No duty assignment, just a lot of paperwork. Agent at large."

McGee cringed. He'd done that as new agent right out of FLETC, before NCIS discovered his computer skills. He never wanted to go there again.

By the time they finished on board the carrier and got back into the car, it was past 7 p.m. and already long dark. The snow was still coming down, and still not sticking. Everything around them was glistening with moisture.

Gibbs had received four calls while he was aboard the Roosevelt: He'd had no service deep inside the steel ship. Two from Abby and one each from Ducky and DiNozzo. He could guess what DiNozzo wanted: Nicky was probably chomping at the bit to leave. Similarly, Petty Officer Ferrara's cause of death was likely a no-brainer, so Ducky could wait. He dialed Abby.

"Gibbs! You're not going to believe what I found."

"Something good, I hope," Gibbs said.

"Well, not good, really, actually, kind of bad. But important. I mean, really, really important."

"Spit it out, Abby," Gibbs said.

"I know why the phrase 'One Less' was familiar."

Gibbs waited for her to continue, and when she didn't, he sighed inwardly. He was not in the mood for games.

"Just tell me, Abs."

"It's from a cold case. One of ours. From when you were in Mexico. An aggravated assault in Newport News. The victim had a note in his pocket just like the one Petty Officer Ferrara had. It said 'One Less'."

Gibbs felt like smacking himself. Of course. In the weeks after he'd returned from his four-month hiatus in Mexico, he'd read through all the cases his team had caught and not closed while he was away. The details came flooding back to him: A young officer, less than two years out of the Naval Academy, attacked on shore leave and beaten nearly to death. He had suffered a spinal injury that ended his career. Unfortunately, a severe concussion had also caused him to have no memory of the attack or anything from the hours leading up to it. He couldn't tell DiNozzo and the team where he'd gone, who he'd met, or who he might have run afoul of. They'd found no witnesses, and not enough forensics to get them anywhere. The case had gone cold and was never solved.

"I remember. Pull the case for me and see if you can locate the victim."

"Already did. The victim still lives in Mitchellville, Maryland, at the same address he had then."

"That's excellent work, Abby. We're on our way back."

"Wait, Gibbs. I have more!" Abby said as he made to hang up.

"Go," Gibbs said.

"Petty Officer Ferrara got a piece of at least one of his attackers. Ducky found some skin and blood under his nails. I typed it and I'm running DNA now. Hopefully he's in the system."

"Anything else?"

"The blood on his clothes was all his. The junk was just junk. There's a few items I'm still working on identifying, and there were some fibers on his clothes that don't match anything the Petty Officer was wearing. I'm running them through the FBIs fabric database."

"Try military fabrics," Gibbs said. "MARPATS first."

"Oooo. You have a suspect?" she asked, with a hint of predatory glee in her voice that Gibbs picked up even across the cell.

"Not yet. What else?"

"Metro took photos of some partial boot prints in the dirt and blood, but there's no way to know if they belong to the attackers. He laid there long enough that they could be anyone's. They're not Nicky's, that's all I know for sure. And there's nothing unique about the treads that will help in matching. Standard waffle soles, mild wear. That's all I've got for now. Tony wants to know if he should let Nicky go home."

"I'll call him." Gibbs terminated the call, then dialed Ducky's cell. He figured that Ducky would have finished with Petty Officer Ferrara and already gone home.

"Ducky, whad'a you got?" he asked when Dr. Mallard picked up. Gibbs could hear hastily turn-down classical music. He was in his Morgan.

"Nothing particularly significant," the medical examiner responded. "He died from internal bleeding caused by repeated blunt force trauma. No weapon marks. It appears the damage was all caused by fists and feet. And you were right: he likely lived an hour or longer after the last injury was inflicted. "

"Damn it," Gibbs swore. If only Nicky had called for help right away…

"Yes, but Jethro, had he been found immediately, he still would have likely died," Ducky interrupted Gibbs' trip down that what-if road. "He had a fracture to the C-3 vertebrae that severed the spinal cord. Had he been taken immediately to a trauma center and given perfect care, he still would have been paralyzed and mostly dependant on a ventilator the rest of his life, even if he ever regained consciousness. He had significant swelling of the brain as a result of repeated blows to the head that might have made even that impossible. His body wound down like a broken clock. He was dead long before he stopped breathing."

Gibbs took that in.

"Any sexual trauma?" he asked.

"No. Were you expecting any?" Ducky asked.

"This might be a hate crime."

"I see. There were no fluids present on the body other than blood consistent with his own, and it appears all the injuries were inflicted while he was dressed."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"At least one of his attackers leads with his left," Ducky said.

"Left-handed?" Gibbs asked. That could help.

"Perhaps. About half the impacts came at Petty Officer Ferrara with a left-handed lead. But it's not conclusive that the assailant is left-handed. It's just as likely he's right-handed and for some reason leads with the left."

Gibbs sighed. "What else?"

"Some skin under his fingernails, Abby is typing it now."

"I heard," Gibbs said.

"Well then you know what I know. My report is on your desk."

"Thanks, Duck. I'll see you in the morning." He disconnected and dialed DiNozzo.

As he'd suspected, DiNozzo had nothing new for him. They'd finished with Nicky hours before. Working with the agency's sketch artist, he'd come up with promising sketches on two of the three attackers. Nicky claimed he'd never gotten a good look at the third guy. He was asking about dinner.

"Feed him, then get him a room somewhere. I want him where I can find him," Gibbs told him.

"Will do, Boss. You want us to stay?"

"I've got some leads I want you to and McGee to run down later tonight. Be back by 10." Gibbs hung up.

* * *

to be continued...

feedback welcome, here or at joykatleen (AT) aol (DOT) com


	9. Part 8

**One Less - Part Eight**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Arriving back at headquarters just before 10 p.m., McGee took Ferrara's belongings down to the evidence lockup while Gibbs went to the squadroom. The big room was mostly dark. Government energy saving guidelines dictated that the overhead lights be off or dimmed after 8 p.m., despite the employees still there. Small islands of lamp light marked the occupied desks of the administrative agents and technical analysts who worked Middle East assignments. That part of the globe was half a day ahead, meaning most of their work was done while the Western world slept. One member of the cleaning crew was moving through the office emptying the shred cans. Gibbs knew the only other people in the building would be the rest of the cleaning staff and the techs who monitored satellite traffic in MTAC. It was definitely down time at NCIS.

Gibbs took off his coat, stowed his gun and sat behind his desk, not bothering to turn on his desk light. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It had been a long drive through the snow back from Norfolk. They'd stopped for a meal outside of Richmond, and after eating Gibbs had taken over the driving. The short shot of bourbon he'd had in the Captain's office was nowhere near enough to impair him, but on the off chance they got pulled over or God forbid had an accident, even a .01 blood alcohol would require an incident report be written. So he'd spent the first half of the return trip in the passenger seat, trying to relax away the steadily building pressure behind his eyes. He'd had little success.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was one of Gibbs' favorite times of the day. Being here in the late evening, or early in the morning, let him focus on his job without the political distractions that came with business hours in Washington. He truly loved his job, had from the beginning. But he could sure as hell live without the politics. If The Powers That Be would just let him do his job, he'd be in pig heaven. But they wanted him to follow rules and regs and write reports and be nice to the dirtbags…

Gibbs had joined NCIS less than a year after he was wounded in Kuwait, less than a year after his family was murdered. It had been a temporary measure, a way to make a few bucks while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with his life, now that he was barely interested in living it. With his training and experience in the military, and his security clearance, getting the job had been easy. After he got it, he'd found himself growing interested despite his almost debilitating depression. His first boss was the man who'd investigated Shannon and Kelly's murders. Mike Franks had taken him under his wing, taught him to be an investigator, taught him to live again. They'd worked together for four years until Franks quit in a fit of rage after the government's impotent response to the terrorist bombing of Khobar Towers in Saudi Arabia. Nineteen members of the US Air Force and one Saudi national were killed, with 372 others wounded. In response, the government had launched an investigation, blamed the General who oversaw the troops housed there, and struck back at no one. Franks had quit his job, abandoned his home, moved to Mexico and taken up drinking as a sport.

Suddenly without a team leader, Gibbs had stepped into Franks' shoes, taking on the leadership role with the other two members of their team. Though the brass definitely didn't approve of many of his methods, they couldn't deny that he was effective. Over time, he collected enough IOUs to be almost bullet proof. Almost.

Many years passed before Gibbs finally understood why Franks had done what he did that day. At the time and for many years after, he'd thought his friend and mentor had taken the coward's way out. Abandoned them while the fight was still on. It wasn't until Gibbs' own moment of rage – when several dozen sailors aboard the munitions ship Cape Fear had been sacrificed when they could have been saved had only someone listened to him – that Gibbs had finally understood. Then he'd done exactly what Franks had done: quit his job and run off to Mexico. Problem was, he couldn't take up drinking as a way of life. He'd tried. Lord, how he'd tried. But being a beach bum just wasn't in him. There was too much still to be done. Then Hamas had tried to frame Ziva for murder, she'd called him for help, and he'd been dragged back into the fight. Not that he minded. During his time in Mexico, he'd been like a boat with no rudder, lost on the sea. Ziva's call had saved him from drowning.

"Gibbs?" a soft voice made him start and pop open his eyes. Ziva was just stepping between their adjoining desks. Speak of the devil.

"Officer David," he said, startled but not surprised by how easily she'd snuck up on him. She was Israeli-trained and could be almost as silent as he could, when she wanted to be. She sat down at her own desk.

"Nicky is a very interesting man, yes?" she said. She put one foot up on her desk and untied the laces of the short boot she was wearing, removing it and setting it beside her chair before repeating the process with the other foot.

"He seems to be," Gibbs agreed.

"He was very excited to be shopping. It appears he has not had new clothing in quite some time."

"Probably hasn't. According to McGee, he's been homeless for most of the last 12 years." Gibbs watched her as she stretched her feet, flexing and curling her toes inside a pair of multi-colored socks. On the drive to Norfolk, McGee had filled Gibbs in on what he'd been able to discover about Nicky's life since leaving the Marines. After he was released from the burn unit at the VA hospital, Nicky had moved into a veteran's home for transitional care. He'd held several part time jobs while he was there, none lasting longer than a month. Apparently, that was when he'd started drinking heavily. Six months passed before he left that facility and moved into a small, government-subsidized apartment. He'd lived there only three months before he stopped paying the rent and was asked to leave. That began a cycle of short-term housing and even shorter-term employment that eventually ended with him landing on the streets. As Nicky had said, there were reports of arrests and hospital admissions for drug and alcohol abuse for the first three years after his released from the Marines, then a stint in drug rehab nine years ago that seemed to have stuck. There'd been no substance abuse incidents since then.

Also as Nicky had said, there was a warrant out for him for failure to appear to answer for a petty theft citation two years before. Gibbs had told McGee to clear the warrant. It was one thing they could do for him, anyway.

"Nicky is a decorated veteran of the Marine Corps, a man who almost sacrificed his life to save others," Ziva continued, and looked over to Gibbs for confirmation.

"Yes," Gibbs said, waiting for the rest.

"Then why does he not get veterans' assistance? A housing benefit of some kind?"

"He could if he wanted to. He chooses to stay on the street."

Ziva cocked her head quizzically. "Why?"

Gibbs considered it. "His mental illness is part of it. He's gotten pretty used to living on the fringe of society. Rejoining the mainstream probably scares him."

"But why would he choose to be homeless? He would not have to rejoin society. He could still be on the fringe if he wanted to. He would just have somewhere safe to sleep."

"It's not that simple, Ziva. Mental illness is hard."

"He takes medicine for that," she said.

Gibbs looked at her strangely. "Why are you so interested?"

Ziva shrugged. "He seems like a nice man. I want to do something to help him."

Gibbs almost smiled. He, too, had been taken in by Nicky's charm and his straightforward way of looking at life.

"We will, Ziva. We Marines take care of our own."

"But I am not a Marine," Ziva pointed out.

To that, Gibbs had to smile. "You're the closest thing to a Marine who's not a Marine that I've ever met."

Ziva was stunned and it showed on her face. Giving her the moment, Gibbs flipped on his desk light and looked through the small stack of reports that had accumulated on his desk during the day. Ducky's autopsy report he would save for later. He was sure Ducky had told him everything important. There was one from DiNozzo on the interview with Nicky that he would need to read. Copies of two sketches were clipped to the back of the report. Gibbs studied them: Definitely looked like Marines. One obviously older than the other. No scars or marks on their faces that would make them immediately identifiable. And neither of them reminded Gibbs more than superficially of anyone they'd interviewed aboard the Roosevelt. And that, he supposed, was going to be the problem. These two faces reminded him in some way of just about every Marine he'd ever met.

The final folder was the case report on the assault Abby had found. He glanced at the first page, which listed the biographical information on the victim. Brandon Hutchinson, address in a middle-class section of Mitchellville, Maryland. It was too late to go talk to him tonight: he hadn't remembered anything two years ago, and the slim chance that he'd have anything to assist in this investigation wasn't worth disturbing a victim they hadn't been able to help. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

"Where's DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, closing the folder.

"Downstairs with Abby."

"What's she still doing here?" he asked.

Ziva shrugged. "Playing video games with Tony, last I saw."

"Come on," he said to Ziva, who hastily stood, shoved her feet back into her unlaced boots, and jogged to follow.

They descended to Abby's lab. McGee was standing behind the swivel chairs at Abby's main computer station, watching DiNozzo and Abby playing some kind of shoot-em-up video game. As Gibbs and Ziva entered, McGee looked back at them and a guilty expression passed over his face. Busted.

"Who's winning?" Gibbs asked from just behind DiNozzo's right ear. DiNozzo jumped, but Abby kept firing her weapons.

"I'm cleaning his clock," Abby said with delight. "Ah ha! Gotcha!" she squealed as one of the characters died a bloody and graphic death.

"No fair, interference," DiNozzo objected. "I was distracted." Abby did a little victory dance.

"There's plenty of distractions in the field, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "Gotta learn to focus." He reached for one of three pizza boxes resting on the center work table and flipped up the lid, snagging a piece. Cold, but good.

"Where'd you put Nicky?" Gibbs asked.

"Um, about that," DiNozzo said. Gibbs cocked an eyebrow at him.

"He flat refused, Boss. Said he would be fine at his warehouse. I really pushed it, but he said if I rented him a motel room, he probably wouldn't stay in it anyway. I took him back to the warehouse, had him show me which room he was staying in. He said you know where to find him if you need him."

"Yeah alright." He took another bite and turned to Abby. "You didn't have to stay, Abs," he said around a mouthful of pizza.

She shrugged. "Didn't have any plans anyway."

"You have that list of businesses I asked for?" he asked her.

"Here," she handed him a sheaf of several papers stapled together. On the top page, Gibbs could see yellow highlighting indicating the 'gay-oriented' businesses. Gibbs handed the papers off to DiNozzo.

"You and McGee go flash Ferrara's photo around the places Abby highlighted. See if anyone saw him Saturday night, or anytime in the past. Don't be Navy, you'll probably get more cooperation."

"Don't be Navy?" DiNozzo asked. "So what should we be?"

"How about a couple looking for a missing friend?" Abby suggested, and Gibbs could have sworn DiNozzo paled just a little. DiNozzo looked at McGee, at Gibbs, then back at Abby.

"A couple? Me and McGee?" He was incredulous.

"Sure. Why not?" Gibbs said. "McGee's a handsome kid." Gibbs was working hard to keep his face even. He knew Tony wasn't homophobic, would never treat a gay man with anything less than respect. But like most men he knew, Tony was nervous about being tagged that way himself. He stuffed the rest of his slice into his mouth.

"But Boss, I'm not, I mean, no one's going to believe…"

"Come on, partner, you heard him," McGee said, putting a small twist on the word 'partner' and batting his eyelashes. That did it, and Gibbs lost it, his face cracking into a grin. Beside him, Abby giggled.

"You two would make a cute couple," Ziva said.

DiNozzo choked, shaking his head. "This is above and beyond the call, boss."

"You'll be fine. Call if you find anything." He turned to go, leaving DiNozzo still sputtering behind him.

* * *

Gibbs updated Ziva on what they'd found aboard the Roosevelt, figuring McGee would do the same for DiNozzo. He had her pull a copy of the file on Lt. Hutchinson to reacquaint herself with the case, then sent her home and sat at his desk to read the file himself. Lieutenant Brandon Hutchinson, U.S. Naval Academy Class of 2004. Intelligence Specialist. Assigned to the U.S.S. Roosevelt on graduation. Good sailor, scored high in all proficiencies, made promotion as scheduled at the end of his first year. Approaching the end of his second year, while the Roosevelt was docked at Norfolk for Fleet Week, he was attacked and left for dead in Newport News, Virginia. DiNozzo, McGee and David had investigated the assault. Gibbs himself had been hiding in Mexico. He'd been gone four months, and his team had gone on without him. They'd done fine, mostly. But this one had gotten by them. Not that he'd have done any better had he been here. There just hadn't been anything to go on. Hopefully, with what was likely a new victim of the same attackers, they'd get somewhere this time.

Gibbs read through the rest of the report, then moved on to Ducky's autopsy report and the transcript of Nicky's interview with DiNozzo and David. He had some other paperwork to attend to, and when his desk phone rang almost two hours later, he was startled to realize it was almost 1:00 in the morning. Behind him at the Middle East desks, the night was in full swing. A low buzz of conversation in foreign languages spilled over the wall. It was almost soothing.

He snatched it up on the second ring. It was Abby. She had something. Gibbs was surprised she was still in the building. He asked her if it could hold long enough for him to refill his coffee, and did she want some Caf-Pow? A small one, she said.

"Abby," he called as he walked into the lab ten minutes later. She was sitting at her desk in the back part of the room, her desk lamp illuminating the otherwise darkened space. Her head was down on her arms on the desktop, her pigtails spread around her. The lab was silent.

"How come you're still here?" he asked. She sat up and accepted the Caf-Pow he held out. She took a sip, then set it on her desk.

"I stayed to wait for Tony and Tim," she said. "I worked for awhile on the stuff you brought from the Roosevelt. It was just stuff. Then I started playing in the records and I found something. Something bad." She seemed a little dejected.

"Bad how?" Gibbs asked. He set his coffee down and put his hands on her shoulders, massaging the tight muscles he found there. She groaned in appreciation.

"You've got great hands, Gibbs," she said.

"That's what they tell me. What did you find?" He patted her back and withdrew. She straightened, grabbed her soda and led Gibbs into the main part of the lab, turning on lights as she went.

"Since we've got two matching crimes, I wanted to see if I could come up with any more." She hesitated.

"And did you?" Gibbs prompted.

"I did." She worked her computer. "I found eight more over the past seven years."

"Eight?" Gibbs said in surprise. "How similar?"

Abby sighed. "Virtually identical. Young males, alone at the end of a night's liberty, assaulted but not robbed, injured seriously enough to end their careers."

"Anything like the note?"

"In three of the eight," Abby said. "Four of nine once you factor in Lt. Hutchinson."

"Three more? Damnit. What's the timeline?"

"Those three were the most recent of the eight I found. They happened last April, January of 2007, and October of 2005. Lt. Hutchinson was June of 2006."

"If there were no notes, why'd you include the other five?" Gibbs asked.

"Every one of the victims was from the Roosevelt," Abby said.

Gibbs stared at her. "Nine sailors from the same aircraft carrier seriously injured in assaults, and this is the first we've heard of it?"

"Eight sailors, one Marine," Abby corrected. "And it's the geography." She poked at her computer and a world map appeared on the plasma on the wall. Gibbs stepped over to it, and a series of red spots appeared. She was right: the dots were scattered across the globe.

"They happened everywhere. Petty Officer Ferrara and Lt. Hutchinson were the only two stateside. The other eight happened in seven different countries. They would have been investigated by local authorities, supervised by…"

"The agent afloat," Gibbs interrupted. "Damn it," he repeated.

"It's been Fredrick, since 1999," Abby said, and Gibbs suddenly understood her dejection. One of theirs had failed to notice – either through negligence or with intent – that there was a group of serial criminals aboard his ship.

"I need you to find out how many sailors have been aboard during that entire time period," Gibbs said.

"Already did. But didn't Nicky say he saw Marines?"

"Marines are only assigned to carriers short-term, six months at most. If men from the crew have been attacking people for six years, it's sailors."

"I actually found four Marines who were aboard for most of the attacks. Liaison personnel, for the Marine units. That was the Marine victim's assignment. But none of them was there for every attack." She tapped some more keys. "Among sailors, I've got 51 officers and 22 enlisted who've been assigned to the Roosevelt since she sailed from Norfolk after 9/11. The first attack I found came in January of 2002, when the ship made port in Saudi Arabia," Abby reported.

"Well, that narrows it down, anyway," Gibbs said. "Better than 6,000." He stopped, and his face showed something had occurred to him.

"What?" Abby said.

"I've got to keep him on board," Gibbs said, and reached for Abby's phone. He dialed a number from memory, glancing at his watch as it rang. One o'clock in the morning. This was so not going to go over well.

"Who?" Abby said, and Gibbs shook his head, putting a finger to his lips.

Gibbs spoke to the Navy's fleet operator, who put him through to the switchboard on the Roosevelt, who put him through to the Watch Officer. It rang five times and Gibbs was beginning to wonder if anyone would be on duty in the Watch Office of a ship docked in home port in the middle of the night, when the phone was finally answered.

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. I have an urgent call for Capt. McNally." He paused, listened, then nodded. "I know he's in quarters. This is urgent. Put me through." More silence, and Gibbs rolled his eyes.

"Sergeant, I understand your orders. I am countermanding them in the name of National Security. I need to speak to Capt. McNally immediately. If you'd like, I can get the Secretary of the Navy on the line, and he can tell you the same thing. But he's also in bed already, and he won't be nearly as nice as I am."

Gibbs nodded to himself, and put the phone against his chest. "You pull the reports on those cases you found?" he asked Abby.

"Already ready for you." She gestured to a stack of manila folders on her side table.

"Can you send electronic copies to everyone?"

"Sure," Abby nodded, and hustled back to her office, where she began working on her desktop computer.

"Abby!" Gibbs called after her. She looked over her monitor at him.

"Good job," Gibbs said, and she smiled.

"McNally," came a voice over the phone, and Gibbs focused.

"Captain, it's Gibbs from NCIS. Sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night, sir," Gibbs said.

"How did you manage to get Sergeant Safina to wake me up?" McNally asked. He didn't seem upset, just curious. "I left her pretty specific orders that I wasn't to be disturbed unless we were under attack. And since we're still in home port, I figured I'd be safe."

"Sorry about that, Skipper. It is urgent. Have you done anything about Special Agent Fredrick yet?"

"I left a few messages this evening. Haven't spoken to anyone. Neither your director nor the SecNav have been available."

Gibbs was relieved. "Good. I need him to stay aboard for awhile," he said. There was silence on the line.

"Why?" McNally finally asked.

"I'd rather not get into that yet, sir. I believe it's vital to our investigation that he stay in place until it's concluded. And I need to send you another agent."

"Why?" McNally said again. Gibbs racked his brain for an explanation.

"In light of the delay in reporting Petty Officer Ferrara missing, Headquarters will be running an audit of Fredrick's reports, to be sure he's meeting NCIS standards for quality and timeliness." Gibbs wasn't usually good at bureaucratic bull, but that wasn't half bad. It almost sounded reasonable.

More silence. "A reporting audit," McNally said. "And what will your man really be doing aboard my ship?"

"Were you aware that TR has lost nine sailors and one Marine in the past seven years to aggravated assaults while on shore leave?"

"I was not," McNally said with a hint of surprise. "I've only been billeted here since July of 2006. I know of two, one last spring, and one in January of '07."

"There have been ten that we know of since she sailed in 2001. I believe the attacks are connected, and I believe Agent Fredrick has information that might prove valuable to the investigation. Either he doesn't know it, or he's hiding it, and I need to find out which before you cut him loose."

There was another period of dead air while McNally seemed to consider that.

"You know we're sailing at the end of the week? If it takes more than a few days, your man's going to have to come along. And quarters are pretty tight."

"I know that, sir."

A pause. "I was pretty upset about the delay in reporting Frank missing. It wouldn't be totally out of character for me to demand that NCIS send another agent for an audit…" the Captain mused.

"Exactly, sir," Gibbs said.

"Very well. I'll hold off on taking action against Fredrick for now. When can I expect your man?"

"Mid-morning."

"You'll keep me informed?" McNally asked.

"Yes sir. We will."

Gibbs signed off and hung up the phone. Now, how to break it to DiNozzo?

* * *

to be continued...

Well, how do you like them apples? Lemme know...


	10. Part 9

**One Less - Part 9**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs had Abby create some NCIS credentials for DiNozzo and a personnel file to go with them. If Fredrick discovered a member of one of the agency's premiere Major Case Teams was working a procedure audit, he would undoubtedly be suspicious. Once he had the newly minted ID card in hard, he told Abby to go home, then settled in to skim over the reports she'd pulled while he waited for McGee and DiNozzo to return. When they did, just past 2 a.m., DiNozzo reported that several people had remembered seeing Ferrara around occasionally, and one bartender had seen him the night he died, but didn't remember anyone bothering him. They could confirm Ferrara had been at The Fireplace that night, but that was all.

After filling them in about what Abby had found, he addressed DiNozzo.

"You're going undercover," Gibbs told him.

"Where?" DiNozzo said, instantly wary. Gibbs had sent him on some weird assignments, and considering what they'd been doing the last few hours…

"Aboard the Roosevelt," Gibbs said.

DiNozzo's eyes widened. "It's in port, right?"

"Yes," Gibbs answered the question he asked. A relieved look passed over DiNozzo's face.

"What's my story?"

"You're there at the request of me and Capt. McNally to audit reporting procedures. You think it's a waste of time. Fredrick hasn't done anything wrong. You're doing what you're told, reluctantly. You're definitely on his side."

"And what am I really doing?"

"Someone on board that carrier has caused career-ending injuries to at least 10 men, and this time went too far. It might be Fredrick, and if it's not, it's someone in the know. Find out who. Abby emailed you copies of the case files on the other assaults. And here." He flipped the ID card Abby had created over to DiNozzo, who caught it neatly. He glanced at it, and Gibbs could have sworn he paled just a little.

"You've still got the rest of the ID that goes with that name, right?" Gibbs asked. DiNozzo nodded slowly.

"Abby built you a personnel file. You're an administrative analyst, you work here, casual connection to major case. You can use your own badge."

DiNozzo glanced at the ID again. Anthony DiNardo. He thought that guy had blown up with his Mustang and the unexpected reappearance made him a little queasy.

"When do I report?" DiNozzo asked, clearing his throat slightly.

"Capt. McNally is expecting you in the morning. Fredrick isn't. I'll set it up on our end. Oh, and the ship sails on Saturday, so pack accordingly."

"Sails? For where?" DiNozzo asked, the pitch of his voice rising.

"She's headed for the Gulf."

"Of Mexico?" DiNozzo asked hopefully.

"Persian."

"Oh man, Boss, no, you've got to be kidding me," DiNozzo whined.

"Sooner you get this solved, sooner I'll send a transport for you. Work fast, you might not even make it to International waters."

* * *

Gibbs pulled into the driveway next to his house and shut off the sedan. It was almost 3 a.m., and his middle-class residential neighborhood was quiet. Gibbs still lived in the two-story plus accessible attic house he'd bought with his first wife Shannon more than 25 years before. He hadn't always lived in it: While he was in the Marines and assigned stateside, they'd lived as a family on several Marine bases. After his girls were killed, the house had sat empty for more than a year while Gibbs tried to get his life back together. Since then, he'd lived here whenever he was posted in Washington, at various times sharing it with two of his three subsequent wives. For the last seven years or so, he'd lived here alone, and had slowly removed from it all reminders of old relationships. He kept a few things from his first life in hidden places around the house, but for the most part, it was a bachelor's home. It suited him well, and coming home to the emptiness no longer broke his heart. He'd put it up for sale when he'd 'retired' to Mexico, but thankfully, it hadn't come close to selling.

Finding himself somewhere on the far side of whupped, Gibbs took a quick shower and went to bed, falling asleep almost immediately. But less than an hour later, he woke in a cold sweat, barely managing to choke back a scream. Sitting up in bed, blinking owlishly in the dimness, his heart pounding and his breath coming in gasps, he felt an almost overwhelming sense of impending doom. Like death was at the door. He pushed the heels of his hands against his forehead, grabbing handfuls of his hair and pulling hard to ground himself.

The house was quiet, his harsh gasps the only sound he could hear. With effort he managed to get his breathing under control and his heart down into the still fast but no longer critical range. He went to his bathroom and splashed water on his face.

Gibbs had had nightmares before. His habit of closing himself off from emotion, of not dealing with his feelings if the timing was inconvenient – which it always seemed to be – often resulted in his subconscious throwing it all back at him while he slept. So this was nothing new.

Returning to the bed, Gibbs sat on the edge and put his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. He'd been dreaming of one particularly bad night he'd spent in Lebanon late in 1983. A mission of mercy had ended badly, with Gibbs the least-injured member of a six-man helicopter crew, lost in hostile territory. It had been one of the longest nights of his life. He'd suffered a head injury in the chopper crash that made him keep drifting away. All he wanted to do was sleep. But it was up to him to keep everyone alive and hidden from passing enemy troops. He'd had to engage them only once when a unit of six Lebanese militiamen had arrived in an oversize Jeep-type vehicle to inspect the wreckage of the Huey. The Navy medic – the broken end of his femur jutting out through the skin at his knee – had been coming in and out of consciousness, and he picked the wrong moment to wake up and start screaming. The Lebanese had started their way and Gibbs had been forced to defend their position. He took one shot hard in the vest and another graze to the arm before all six of the enemy were lying dead. A team of Force Recon Marines found them just after first light, but not before a young Lieutenant who had survived the initial crash died in Gibbs' arms.

Loss of blood and exhaustion made him hallucinate that night, and all his demons had come out to play. Those demons and all his new ones still haunted him sometimes, on nights when his defenses were weak and his emotions threatened to overwhelm. This time, it was the young Lieutenant he'd seen right before he woke, begging for Gibbs to end the pain.

But why tonight? Gibbs wondered silently as he scrubbed his hand over his face. Nothing particularly stressful had happened today. There'd been no personal hits. No heavy emotion. Nothing that should have sparked this.

With a heavy sigh, Gibbs got out of bed and pulled on sweat pants and a t-shirt. He went down to the kitchen and started coffee. While it brewed he stepped out onto his covered front porch and looked up the street. It was still and quiet. The snow was drifting slowly down, sticking to the signs and cars, but not to the still too-warm ground. The temperature was in the low 30s. Cold, but not biting.

Gibbs knew most of his neighbors. The elderly couple two doors east of him were the only residents who had been there longer than he. Gibbs wondered sometimes what they thought of him: a thrice-divorced widower who came and went at all hours. They knew what he did for a living, but he still wondered. The woman, Joan, had tried to fix him up a couple times. Between his marriages and since. He'd always politely declined. The last thing he needed was another woman mothering him.

Returning to the kitchen, he drew a mug of coffee, slipped his feet into a pair of old deck shoes, and descended the wooden stairs to his basement. A single work light shone over the shell of the wheelhouse of a boat. He'd been building the boat by hand for about six years now. The hull was already done, and the wheelhouse was getting there.

Working with his hands was one of the few things in life that made Gibbs truly happy. He could lose himself in the repetition of cutting, planing, sanding, and finishing. It gave him a chance to think, or not. He'd come up with solutions to many problems while here in the basement.

Setting the coffee on the workbench, he picked up a wood block wrapped in sandpaper. The boat was almost finished, and Gibbs had started to suspect he was dragging it out on purpose. Three prior versions had been started and never finished, burned at the end of each of his marriages. This one was likely to see the ocean, and if he searched deep inside himself – something he was loath to do most of the time – he could admit he was scared. If he finished her, what would he do next?

Gibbs ran his hands over the shell of the wheelhouse until he found a spot less smooth than the rest. He moved the light to best illuminate that place and sat on a stool to work. He was soon lost in the motion, his thoughts nowhere, the coffee cooling on the bench behind him.

* * *

Something woke him. Gibbs blinked a couple times, disoriented, looking around himself for clues. Filtered sunlight. Strong smell of sawdust and Jim Beam. The underside of the wheelhouse above him.

Gibbs sat up suddenly, barely remembering at the last second to swerve so as not to hit his head on the boat. He squeezed his eyes shut tight for a second, trying to orient himself. He remembered the nightmare, coming down to work. He remembered being unable to keep his thoughts on what he was doing, unable to stop them from returning over and over to that night in Lebanon. He remembered finishing his coffee and refilling the cup with a shot of bourbon. And another, and another.

Gibbs groaned and rolled up onto his knees, crawling out from under the boat. He'd fallen asleep – passed out was probably closer to the truth – under the boat sometime after 5 a.m. His coffee mug was lying on its side on the floor next to him, alcohol spilled out and soaked into the sawdust. That accounted for the smell.

Feeling more hung over than a couple shots of Tennessee's finest brew ought to make him, Gibbs stumbled upstairs to the kitchen. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. 8:30. Damnit. He was already late. He dumped the remaining cold coffee from the night before and started a new pot, then hit the shower. When the warm water failed to clear the cobwebs from his brain, he turned it to cold and let that do its work.

* * *

When he arrived on the third floor, fresh mug of coffee in hand, Gibbs found both McGee and David waiting for him. It only emphasized how late he was. He had to stop sleeping in the basement.

"Ziva. Call Lt. Hutchinson and set up an interview," Gibbs instructed as he rounded his desk.

"Here?" Ziva asked, reaching for Hutchinson's case file. She'd obviously read it this morning.

"We'll go to him. Today. McGee." Gibbs took off his overcoat and stashed his weapon in his desk drawer before sitting down.

McGee spoke from his desk. "I ran Petty Officer Ferrara's cell phone records since they returned to Norfolk. Calls to his brother, his family back in L.A., taxi companies, a couple of local stores and restaurants. No calls to friends, nothing that stands out. His email over the same period showed nothing unusual. He chatted with friends at various bases across the country and overseas. People he used to work with. Looks like he was emailing instead of calling. Their conversations were all of the 'hey how's it going' variety, plus a lot of jokes and viral videos flying back and forth. Lots of holiday greetings, including one each from the families of Capt. McNally's son and the Radar Intercept Officer he saved. There were a few emails from Ben that stopped about when his brother said Ferrara stopped talking about him, but there was no sign they were anything other than buddies. They just tapered off and then stopped. Nothing in any of his emails that even vaguely hinted at his orientation, or at anyone having a problem with him."

"What do you have on the other victims?"

At that, McGee stood and grabbed the remote for the plasma. He pushed a few buttons and two rows of military ID photos appeared. Five on the top, four on the bottom. As Abby had said, eight sailors, one Marine Major. Four white, two Hispanic, two African-American, one Asian. The youngest appeared to be in his early twenties, the oldest mid forties. Gibbs had managed to get through only four of the nine reports the night before, and hoped McGee had gotten further.

"Six officers, three enlisted, each attacked while on shore leave from the Roosevelt," McGee said. "Other than Lt. Hutchinson, all incidents occurred while the ship was overseas. Two occurred in Spain three years apart, the others were in France, Italy, Slovenia, Greece, the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, and Jamaica."

"Jamaica?" Gibbs repeated. "What was she doing there?"

McGee leaned over his own computer and tapped a few keys. "February 2003, the ship spent a month on a training cruise in the Caribbean right before being unexpectedly ordered to the Persian Gulf to initiate Operation Iraqi Freedom."

Gibbs nodded his understanding and bid him to continue.

"The injuries were all severe enough to end a Naval career, but for the most part not serious enough to permanently disable. There were two exceptions before Petty Officer Ferrara: Lt. Hutchinson, and Marine Major Raymond Ortiz." The picture changed to zero in on the sole Marine. A serious-looking Hispanic man in Class A Dress blues, the US flag behind him. Not one of the files Gibbs had made it through.

"Major Ortiz, age 32, was attacked in Dubai, United Arab Emirates in October of 2005. Severely beaten and sodomized. He spent six weeks in intensive care at Ramstein Air Base before being evacuated to Naval Medical Center San Diego. He spent another four months there before he was discharged from the Marine Corps, then he was transferred to the VA Hospital in San Diego. He lived there for almost a year before his death." McGee stopped, returned to check something on the computer, then looked up at Gibbs.

"Cause of death unknown."

"Unknown?" Gibbs said in surprise.

"That's all the death certificate says. Unknown."

"That is odd," Ziva commented, getting up from her desk to join the conversation. She looked at Gibbs. "Lt. Hutchinson has agreed to meet with us at his home as soon as we can get there." Gibbs acknowledged the message and refocused on McGee.

"What were his injuries?" Gibbs asked.

"The crime report says head trauma, multiple fractures and internal injuries. The only information we have is from the initial interviews with the doctors at the evac hospital. The rest of his records were sealed.

"So unseal them," Gibbs said.

"It's not that simple, Boss. We don't have probable cause for a warrant yet, and with the new HIPAA privacy laws…"

"Yeah, alright," Gibbs interrupted. "What does our report say?"

McGee shuffled some papers. "The crewmates he went ashore with said they lost him in the crowd at an urban nightclub frequented by U.S. military forces, and when he didn't reappear, assumed he'd gotten lucky and would return to the ship on his own. When he missed curfew, local authorities were notified. He turned up five days later at a government health clinic, two days after the Roosevelt sailed. He was brought in by a group of teens who claimed to have found him dumped in an oil field. A piece of notebook paper with the words "One Less" written on it was found in the pocket of his shirt, the only clothing he was wearing when he was found. The teens were interviewed by both the UAE Army and the NCIS Resident Agent in Dubai and their story checked out."

"Who interviewed them first?" Gibbs asked.

McGee consulted his notes. "Doesn't say." Gibbs nodded again. No help there. If the kids who'd found Ortiz had been coached, there'd be no way in hell the NCIS investigator would have gotten the whole truth, even if he was looking for it.

"Further investigation brought no new leads. The case went cold and was never solved."

"The other victims?"

McGee clicked buttons. Hutchinson's and Ortiz's photos disappeared, leaving seven.

"Of the others, there's one Petty Officer Second, one Petty Officer First, one Master Chief. Two lieutenants junior grade, two lieutenants. The youngest was Lt. Hutchinson, in the Navy about two years, the oldest was Master Chief Hospital Corpsman Ian Goetz, almost 18 years."

"Why do I know that name?" Gibbs asked. McGee made another adjustment and the picture grouping on the plasma changed to a single large photo. The photo rang a bell. Not a very loud one.

"He was on the Roosevelt from 1993 through 1997, then spent seven years on the Abraham Lincoln before moving back to the Roosevelt in 2004."

"He had any contact with us?" Gibbs asked. McGee looked it up.

"Twice. He…" McGee scanned the information in front of him, then nodded rapidly several times. "Oh, I remember him. He discovered the body of a female Lieutenant on Norfolk Station in 1994, eliminated as a suspect after a full investigation. Four years ago, you interviewed him again when Petty Officer Cluxton murdered her lover and tried to sell it as a repeat by the same killer." McGee had worked with Cluxton at Norfolk, and was both saddened and disturbed when she turned out to be the killer.

"Lt. Jane Doe," Gibbs said, nodding to himself. He remembered Goetz now, but he was certain it was for different reasons than McGee. When Gibbs had interviewed him about the second murder, Goetz had initially balked at telling Gibbs where he'd been at the time. When Gibbs had threatened to arrest him, then-Chief Petty Officer Goetz had asked if they could speak off the record. Gibbs agreed and Goetz reluctantly offered Gibbs an alibi so startling and so against his own self-interest that Gibbs had instantly believed him.

McGee's doubtful voice brought Gibbs back from his ruminations over what he knew about Chief Goetz and what it might mean to their present investigation. "No, actually the victim was a civilian, Janice Santos."

Gibbs shook his head. "The first victim. Ducky called her Lt. Jane Doe. She was never identified. Goetz was cleared in both cases. What happened to him?"

More shuffling papers. "He was the most recent in Abby's grouping, attacked in Greece last April. Blitz attack by unknown assailant or assailants while he was returning to ship alone. Single blow to the head knocked him unconscious. When he regained consciousness, he was alone in an alley and bleeding badly from severe lacerations on both ankles. He managed to crawl out to the street where a passer-by called for an ambulance. Both legs broken, the bottoms of both feet beaten, and both his Achilles tendons severed." McGee winced as he finished the rundown.

"I have seen that before in torture cases," Ziva spoke up. "Beating the feet is a very effective means of eliciting information."

"Made less effective if the subject is unconscious at the time," Gibbs said, and gave her a look.

"True," Ziva conceded. "But the recovery is still very painful and can take months."

"His recovery has been slow," McGee agreed. "Even after the bones healed, the damage to his nerves and tendons had been severe and there were concerns that he would never walk again. Navy doctors decided that even if his recovery was best case, he would never return to his former duties. He was offered an early retirement with full pension benefits, which he took. He's currently teaching at Bethesda while he continues his rehabilitation. A similar note was found in his pocket when the MPs collected his clothes from the local hospital he'd been initially taken to."

Gibbs frowned, considering something that didn't add up.

"Show me date of attack compared to severity of injury," Gibbs instructed. McGee went to work and a few minutes later, a graph appeared on the plasma.

"That's not right," Gibbs said when it was up. McGee frowned, rechecking his data.

"Uh, I gave each injury a number from one to ten, with Lt. Hutchinson's permanent disability being the 10, and that's what it looks like," McGee said hesitantly.

"No," Gibbs said. "That's not what I mean. Look at it." McGee studied the chart for a moment, then shook his head.

"I, uh, I don't see what you're getting at, Boss," he said.

"I do," Ziva said. "When a criminal starts committing crimes, he usually starts out small and the crimes get worse over time. Lt. Hutchinson's fractured spine should not have been followed up with Master Chief Goetz's broken legs, regardless of how painful."

"Correct," Gibbs said to her.

"And the attack in 2002 was more severe than the ones in 2003 and 2004," McGee said. "Then, Major Ortiz and Lt. Hutchinson, both permanently disabled before the most recent two, which were lesser injuries. Then Petty Officer Ferrara was killed."

"But what does it mean?" Ziva asked.

Gibbs shook his head. "We're going to find out. McGee: get all the medical records to Ducky, find out where they stored the forensics and get it to Abby, and locate the rest of the victims. We're going to need them."

"On it," McGee said.

"Set up an interview with the victim in the other case that's still within the statute. January two years ago, I think Abby said?"

"What about Master Chief Goetz?" McGee asked.

"Leave him to me," Gibbs replied.

When McGee nodded, Gibbs turned to Ziva.

"Officer David, you're with me." He grabbed his coat and gun and headed out, Ziva on his heels.

* * *

to be continued...

Reviews and comments welcomed with open mind. Please feed the author.


	11. Part 10

**One Less - Part 10**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs and Ziva drove to Lt. Hutchinson's home in Mitchellville, Maryland, about 15 miles from Washington. Ziva said the former sailor had sounded confused as to why they wanted to talk to him after all this time. But he'd readily agreed to meet with them.

The snow had stopped overnight, but the sky was still heavy. He'd missed the weather forecast he usually caught off his bedside radio. Looking at the heavy overcast, Gibbs had no doubt there was more to come.

Hutchinson's house was a larger than average, single story home designed with traditional architecture, a covered porch, and an honest-to-God white picket fence. As they started up the walk, the deep bark of a large dog heralded their arrival. The dog barked twice in succession, then paused before barking exactly twice more and falling silent. Gibbs and Ziva exchanged looks. They hadn't heard anyone shushing it.

The front door opened as Gibbs raised a hand to knock. No one seemed to be there, but once it was fully open, a yellow Labrador Retriever came out from behind it and stood in the doorway. It looked at them without any sign of welcome, seemed to judge, then wagged its tail several times and backed out of the way.

"Come in," came a voice from somewhere inside the house. Gibbs led the way, his senses on alert. Behind him, he could feel Ziva's unease. The dog turned away from them and calmly walked toward the back of the house. As Ziva closed the door, he noticed a knotted rope tied to the lever-action handle. The dog had opened it.

In front of them, the small foyer featured a set of closed French doors to their left and an open archway to what looked like a formal dining room to their right. Ahead the house opened into a great room Gibbs estimated was at least 30 by 20 feet, with 14 foot ceilings. It was tastefully but minimally furnished, with wide walkways around the furniture. A pair of ceiling fans turned lazily above them. Through floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the great room, they could see a large, landscaped backyard with a covered in-ground pool. Gibbs noticed it was warmer than average in the room.

"Follow the dog," the voice called out to them. Gibbs refocused on the lab, who had stopped in the back right corner of the great room and was looking over its shoulder at them. Again, the agents exchanged looks and Gibbs shrugged. He felt no danger.

Following the dog around the corner, they found themselves in a huge kitchen. The owner of the voice was sitting on a high wheeled stool, rapidly stirring something in a pan on the stove. At one end of the long room, out of the way, was a low-profile sport wheelchair.

"NCIS I presume?" the young blond man said. He was small, probably no taller than Ziva had he been standing, but his proportions were all wrong. His shoulders and arms under the long-sleeve t-shirt he was wearing were wide and bulging with muscles, yet his legs were thin and bony, their wasted condition obvious even under the thick sweat pants he was wearing. Gibbs had seen that kind of mismatch before in paraplegics who took care of themselves. And this young man obviously did.

"Agent Gibbs, Officer David," Gibbs introduced them. The dog moved over next to the stool, and the man in it leaned sideways to pick a dog treat out of a canister on the counter. He flipped it to the dog, who caught it neatly and retreated into the dining area. The dog crawled under the table, flopped onto the floor and ate his prize.

"Have a seat. I'll be done in a minute. This stuff'll burn if I'm not careful."

The man at the stove switched stirring hands, reached for a bottle of something on the back of the stove and poured a splash into the pan. A sizzle, and a cloud of steam, and a wonderful smell erupted.

"What are you cooking?" Ziva asked. They sat on bar stools at the counter-topped half-wall that separated the cooking area from the eating area.

"Not sure what I'm going to call it yet," he answered. "But it's going to be lunch. A cream-based sauce for pasta and chicken. It's got three kinds of bell peppers, cilantro, garlic, lime juice, chicken stock, butter. Oh, and Tequila," he added, holding up the bottle. "I like to experiment."

Putting the bottle back, he raised the spoon to his mouth and took a small taste, then rolled his eyes. "Heavenly," he said. He turned down the heat, stirred a few more times, then put a glass lid over the pan.

"That'll do it. Sorry about that." He wiped his hands on a dish towel before pushing himself off the counter and over toward them. The stool rolled smoothly across the hardwood floor. He grabbed the corner of the counter to stop the forward motion, positioning himself across the counter from where the agents sat.

"Brandon Hutchinson. Good to meet you," he said, and offered his hand to each of them in turn. His grip was firm. "Have we met before?" he said when he shook with Ziva.

"We have. In the hospital after you were injured. I was one of the investigating officers," Ziva replied.

"I thought you looked familiar," Hutchinson said.

"Your dog is very talented," Ziva said.

"He's a certified assistance dog. He gets things for me, opens the door when I tell him to, carries things when we walk, lets me know if someone's approaching the house. He even screens visitors and decides if they're okay before he lets them in. That's not something he was trained to do, he just does it. And he hasn't gotten it wrong yet, have you Vince?"

At the sound of his name, the dog raised his head and looked at them, slapping his tail on the floor twice. He seemed to consider the situation, then yawned, licked his lips, and laid his head back on his paws.

"Can I offer you a drink?" Brandon asked. "I've got bottled water, orange juice, couple kinds of soda. I can brew some coffee if you'd like."

"Sure," Gibbs said. "Coffee'd be nice." Ziva echoed his sentiment. They watched as Brandon rolled back and forth across the kitchen, gathering the required items and getting the coffee maker started.

"So, what can I do for you?" Brandon asked when he'd resettled across from them again.

"We need to ask you a few questions about your assault, Lt. Hutchinson," Ziva began.

"Please, it's just Brandon. I've been out of the Navy a long time."

"Brandon," she said and smiled at him. "A sailor was attacked in Washington over the weekend and there are some similarities between his attack and yours." They had agreed on the way over to stick to only the most recent attack, and not mention the other victims. Yet.

"How badly was he hurt?" Brandon asked.

"He was killed," Gibbs answered.

"Damn. I'm sorry to hear that." He crossed himself. "It was nothing short of a miracle that I survived, or so they said."

"What do you remember about that night?" Gibbs asked.

"Not much, unfortunately," Brandon answered. "I was out with some friends from my unit. We were docked at Norfolk during Fleet Week, training at Dam Neck. We'd spent a week over there in lock down and we were scheduled to sail in a few days, so our CO gave us the weekend. We were bar-hopping in Norfolk, nothing serious. The last thing I remember is being at Joe's Grill, but according to my friends, that was three hours before we went our separate ways, and nearly six hours before I was found."

"Was it unusual for you to go off by yourself?" Ziva asked.

"I didn't go off by myself," Brandon said with a grin. "They left me there. I wasn't much of a ladies' man, even before this." He patted one of his legs. "Of the group I hung out with, I was almost always the last to hook up. They'd find someone to wine and dine, and I'd get left."

"Any idea why you were in Newport News? That's 25 miles from Norfolk," Gibbs said.

"I don't know. It's not like I never went there, but it wouldn't have been normal on a night like that."

"If you had to guess, can you give us an idea of where in Newport you might have gone, if you had decided to go there after the rest of your group left?" Ziva asked. Brandon looked at her for a moment longer than a casual glance. It was a strange question, to be sure.

"It was almost three years ago," Brandon said.

"I know," Gibbs said. "But it might help us find out who killed our victim if you had some idea of how you ended up where you did."

"I'd just be speculating," Brandon said, again seeming to hesitate.

"Please," Ziva said.

"I might have gone to Hilton Village," he said.

"Why there?" Ziva asked.

"I… I used to know some people there," Brandon said, and the hesitation was now clear.

Gibbs scanned his memory for anything he knew about Hilton Village. He knew it was a long, skinny neighborhood of mixed businesses and residences, bounded on the west by one of the off-shoots of Chesapeake Bay, on the east by an interstate and a major rail line. Public parks on both ends. As for the cultural make-up of the area, he was lost. He wished McGee was here: the kid would have all the area's vital stats on his PDA in under a minute, Gibbs was sure.

"Did any of the people you knew see you there that night?" Ziva asked.

"I didn't ask," Brandon said. "But why would it matter? There's no way to know if I went anyplace specific that night or not. I'm just guessing."

"Hilton Village. That area's a lot like Dupont in D.C., isn't it?" Gibbs asked on a hunch. Brandon flinched, and looked away. His reaction hinted at the answer to what Gibbs really wanted to ask, but hadn't yet figured out how to approach.

"Sort of," Brandon admitted. "Same kind of mix of residences and business, if that's what you mean."

The dog, still under the table, suddenly lifted its head and looked toward the front of the house. He let out a sound that was part bark, part whine, then jumped to his feet and dashed out of the kitchen toward the end of the house.

"Alex's home," Brandon said. There was a low rumbling from the part of the house the dog had gone to. The garage door going up.

"Who's Alex?" Ziva asked.

"He lives here," Brandon said, and glanced at Gibbs. The information Gibbs needed was there, just out of reach. "He's been away on a business trip. Supposed to be in last night, but his flight was delayed coming out of DFW."

Footsteps approaching, and a tall Hispanic man came into the kitchen, the dog hot on his heels and bouncing up and down. The man had a laptop bag over his shoulder and was towing a small wheeled suitcase. He radiated a sense of tired, and glad to be home.

"Oh, hello," he said when he saw them sitting at the counter. He slung the laptop onto the table and collapsed the handle for the suitcase. At his feet, Vince the dog was whining and carrying on, his tail smacking against the chair and table legs.

"Alex, this is Agent Gibbs and Officer David from NCIS," Brandon supplied. Alex had reached down to scratch the dog's ears, and when he straightened, his face clearly showed anger.

"What are they doing here?" he demanded.

"It's alright, Alex. A sailor was killed yesterday. His attack was like mine."

"So now they show up again, after all this time. Who was killed, an Admiral's kid? Must be, for this to suddenly be important again."

"Knock it off," Brandon said.

"I don't want them here," Alex said.

"It wasn't their fault," Brandon said, his voice softening. "They did the best they could."

Alex snorted, an unpleasant sound. Vince sat down, watching the humans interact, looking back and forth between Brandon and Alex, with an occasional glance at the NCIS agents. He seemed wary, uncertain.

"Why don't you take Vince for a walk. We won't be long."

"You don't have to talk to these people, B. You're not in the Navy anymore."

"I know. We won't be long," he repeated.

"Fine." Alex stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later, he whistled for the dog, who looked up at Brandon and whined.

"Go," Brandon said, and Vince took off after Alex.

When the front door slammed a minute later, Brandon sighed.

"Sorry about that. He doesn't like the Navy much. Blames them for my injuries." Brandon pushed off the counter and crossed to the coffee maker, pouring three mugs full. Using two of the cups to push the third, he slid them around the counters to where they were sitting.

"You need cream and sugar?" he asked. Both agents declined and reached for their cups. Gibbs sipped at his mug: not bad. A little more chicory than his brand, but still not bad.

"Are you homosexual?" Ziva suddenly asked. Gibbs looked sharply over at her and put his cup down, hard. Some of the coffee spilled out onto the counter. She ignored him. Brandon, too, seemed taken aback, but then he smiled and shook his head in resignation.

"What happened to 'Don't ask, Don't tell'?" he asked. He tossed Gibbs a dishcloth, which Gibbs used to wipe up the spill.

"You are not in the Navy anymore," Ziva said, repeating what Alex had said moments before.

"And we only care because we think that might have been the motive behind the sailor's death, and possibly your assault," Gibbs added as he handed back the cloth. They were in it now.

"I always thought it was the motive," Brandon said. "Alex was sure of it. He's also convinced that was the reason the case was never solved. That the Navy didn't care because they figured out I was gay."

"And what do you think?" Ziva asked. She raised her own mug.

He shrugged in a 'what can you do' motion. "I think there weren't any witnesses, and I couldn't remember enough to give you a place to start, much less enough to find a suspect. I think Officer David here, and her partners… What were their names?"

"Agents DiNozzo and McGee," Ziva supplied.

"That's right. I think you did the best you could with what little you had."

"We did," Ziva said.

"But we have more now," Gibbs said. "There was a note, found in your pocket. Do you remember that?"

"I remember being told about it. 'One Less,' wasn't it?" Brandon asked.

"Yes. The sailor who was killed had the same note in his pocket."

"Was he…" Brandon paused, and Gibbs filled in the blank.

"His family confirms he was gay, yes. We know he spent the last few hours of his life at a couple of clubs in Dupont, and he was found not far from there. Which was why it would be helpful to know where you were the night you were attacked."

Brandon thought about it, then picked up his coffee mug and stared into it. There was a long moment of silence which neither Gibbs nor David disturbed before he finally spoke again.

"What the hell. Like you said, I'm not in the Navy anymore. The Powers that Be in my command chain didn't want to acknowledge that one of their hotshot Annapolis grads was gay, so they didn't ask when Alex spent every moment with me at the hospital. And I sure as hell didn't tell. I managed to hold on to an honorable discharge, and they can't exactly change it now." He took a drink and looked up at them. "There's a bar in Newport News, called the Corner Pocket. It's on Jefferson, east of the Amtrak station, on the edge of Hilton Village. If I went to Newport that night, that's probably where I would have gone. There, or into Huntington Park, if I was really feeling brave. In fact, I've always sort of figured that's what happened. That I ran into a homophobe after leaving the club. It wouldn't have been unusual."

"To be there? Or to run into a homophobe?" Ziva asked.

"Both. Either. If I could get away from my friends and go clubbing, I would. I mean, it was dangerous, but I was a young buck, and I figured I was immortal." He stopped, shook his head. "Not so much."

"Your last billet was where?" Gibbs asked, though he already knew the answer. He wanted to move them to more neutral ground, stabilize the high emotion.

"Aboard the Roosevelt," Brandon said. "I was with the Naval Special Warfare Development Group."

"SEAL Team Six, right?" Ziva asked, picking up Gibbs' lead.

"Yes. But I was just an analyst. N2 Intelligence. Nothing special." He smiled. "I was what the bosses call 'Combat Support Services'. We had another term for it…"

"Drylanders," Gibbs supplied.

"That's right," Brandon's smile turned to a grin. "Were you there?"

"Nah. First Marines, retired after Desert Storm," Gibbs said.

"Had you been on the Roosevelt long?" Ziva asked.

"It was the only billet I had. Assigned there right out of Annapolis. A little over two years."

"Did you like it?" she asked.

"I loved it. I would have stayed there forever. Capt. Macke ran a tight ship."

"Did anyone there know about your orientation?" Gibbs asked.

"Not that I know of," Brandon said. "I kept it real quiet. I had planned to make the Navy my career."

"Were you and Alex together long before you were injured?" Ziva asked.

"Yes," Brandon said, frowning slightly. It was clear he didn't know why she was asking. "We've been together for eight years," he added.

"What did he think of your career choice?" Gibbs asked.

Brandon didn't answer right away. He glanced past them out the large window that continued into the kitchen from the great room, then drank more coffee. There was nothing out there, but Gibbs figured he wasn't looking that far, anyway. When Brandon finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

"He didn't like it. But he respected it. I met him when I was in Third Class at Annapolis. We were less than six months post-9/11, and I was committed. I was going to help strike back, participate in the payback, you know? We fell in love pretty quick, built a relationship on the quiet. The only disagreements we had in the early days were over the Navy. He didn't understand how I could want to spend the rest of my life in the closet, working for an organization that would disown me if they ever found out I what I really was. But he respected my dedication.

"After graduation and before I shipped out the first time, we held a civil commitment ceremony and bought this house. Alex's a computer genius. He makes almost five times the highest pay rate I would have ever made in the Navy. And his coworkers don't care about his orientation. We decided to live here, away from Norfolk and far enough from Annapolis that the chances of running into someone I knew from the Academy while Alex and I were out together was slim. While I was deployed, I went out with my crew, flirted with the girls, put on the good show. I honestly don't think anyone knew."

"The homicide yesterday may have been committed by someone on the Big Stick," Gibbs stated, watching for Brandon's reaction. Surprisingly, there wasn't one.

"Okay," Brandon said.

"That doesn't surprise you?" Gibbs asked.

"Not really," Brandon shrugged. "If someone on board found out he was gay, there would be consequences."

"How would someone have found out?" Ziva asked.

"It would have been easy, if he wasn't careful. It's a big carrier, but it's a small town. A turn of phrase, a certain reaction to a joke. If someone suspects, that's all it takes. Rumors spread and soon everyone suspects. Then you have to either prove them wrong or resign."

"Were you careful?" Ziva asked.

"Always," Brandon said, and he seemed absolutely certain.

"Can you think of anyone you served with who might have figured you out?" Gibbs asked. "Someone who might still be aboard?"

"You think someone from my ship might have attacked me," Brandon stated.

"It's a possibility, especially considering the similarities between your attack and the homicide."

Brandon considered. They could see him casting back into memory, thinking things through.

"I really don't think anyone knew. There were a couple of other guys aboard ship who were gay, and we knew each other, but they wouldn't have done this kind of thing."

"Is there any chance one of them was not as discreet as you were? Told someone who might have objected?" Ziva asked.

Brandon thought again, but ended up shaking his head.

"I don't know. They certainly wouldn't have told anyone on purpose. We didn't hang around together or anything. It was something we avoided, actually. Alone, it's easier to hide. There would have been no upside to anyone talking."

"Can we get the names of the others you knew?" Ziva asked. "To see if they suspect anyone?"

A wry shake of his head met that request. "No, ma'am. That I will not do. 'Don't ask, don't tell' isn't much of a policy, but it's all we've got. I can probably make some inquiries myself if you'd like. If they're still in, they won't talk to you anyway."

"That'd be helpful," Gibbs said, a sideways look at Ziva telling her to let it go.

"You know, it never occurred to me that it might have been someone I knew. I just assumed it was a run-of-the-mill gay bashing," Brandon said.

"It's early in this investigation. But we have a few leads, and a good witness," Gibbs said.

"What was his name?" Brandon asked.

"Who?" Gibbs asked, thinking for a second he was asking for their witness's name.

"The sailor who was killed."

"Yeoman Third Frank Ferrara," Gibbs said. Brandon frowned, then nodded.

"He was the one who lost his leg in the deck accident, right? Keeping that Super Hornet from going in the drink?"

"Yup," Gibbs agreed. "Did you know he was gay?"

"Nope. Never met him. I only remember his name because of the accident."

Gibbs let that sit for a moment, until Ziva spoke again.

"What did Alex think of your clubbing?" she asked.

Brandon frowned. "Why does it matter?" he asked.

"Did he know?" Gibbs immediately followed up.

"Not at first. I didn't think he'd understand. It was hard on me, having to deny what I was, and being able to go out and 'be gay' was a relief valve. Helped me keep it together. But it felt kind of like cheating. A friend of mine convinced me I should tell him, that to keep it a secret wasn't right. So I told him. I think he was more upset that I thought he wouldn't understand than at what I was doing. We argued a little, then..." He smiled, his face reddening a bit. "... Then we made up. He didn't mind. He trusted me not to break my vows."

Gibbs considered that, and read him as true. He closed his notebook.

"That's all we have. Do some thinking about the crew you worked with, sailors and Marines. If you think of anyone who might have figured you out, or who might have gone to this length to get rid of you, give me a call." He held out his card. Brandon took it.

"I will. Sorry again about Alex," Brandon said.

"It's alright. He has a right to his opinion. Tell him we're going to get them this time."

Brandon tilted his head, considering Gibbs. Gibbs held his eye until Brandon nodded.

"I believe you. I'll call if I think of something."

* * *

"Can you explain something to me?" Ziva asked, breaking 10 minutes of silence on the ride back to the Navy Yard. The sky had darkened while they were in Hutchinson's house. The snow now looked like a sure thing.

"What?" Gibbs asked. He'd been lost in his own thoughts, and hadn't really noticed the silence until she spoke.

"Don't ask, don't tell?"

"Nope," Gibbs said. He rubbed at his eyes. The tension he'd felt building yesterday was back, and with an unhealthy dose of too much alcohol and not enough sleep in the mix, it had already become a headache.

"No?" Ziva said, startled. Gibbs was close-mouthed, but he'd never before refused to help her understand something.

Gibbs glanced at her, saw her surprise, and continued. "I can't explain it. Don't understand it myself."

"Oh," Ziva said. She was clearly confused.

"The theory is that what they don't know about they don't have to deal with," Gibbs continued. "If they don't know a sailor is gay, they don't have to decide whether he deserves to stay in the Navy or not."

"Why would being gay make a man less worthy of being a sailor?" Ziva asked.

"It doesn't," Gibbs answered.

Ziva frowned. "But if being gay doesn't make him less of a sailor, why could he not stay in the Navy?"

"They say having gay men in the military is bad."

"I do not understand." Ziva said.

Gibbs sighed. "It's just old-fashioned prejudice. Old straight men don't understand sexual attraction to other men, and they imagine the worst."

"The worst?" Ziva asked.

"A breakdown of discipline. They think gay sailors will lust after their brother servicemen, like being gay equals having no self-control." Gibbs paused, sighed a little.

"They say it's bad for morale. The same groundless argument they used to try and keep out blacks. And women. What they don't want to believe is that gay or straight has nothing to do with being disciplined and patriotic and willing to sacrifice for your brothers or your country."

Gibbs fell silent, and Ziva considered his answer.

"Do they know how many gay men are in the Navy?" Ziva asked.

"Almost 65,000 gays and lesbians in the military as a whole," Gibbs supplied. "Or so say statistics."

"That is a lot of personnel to lose if they were to all be discharged," Ziva noted.

"They won't be. They can't spare personnel when the country's at war, no matter how bad they think it is for morale."

"So what do you think?" Ziva asked.

"About what?" Gibbs asked.

"About serving with gay men?"

"Why the hell should I care? If a man does his job and keeps his attitude to himself, why does it matter who he chooses to sleep with?"

"But what if he wanted to sleep with you?" she asked.

"You think I've never been propositioned by a man before?" Gibbs asked, glancing at her with a small smile. "Guy offers, I say no thanks, there's no problem."

Ziva's eyes widened and Gibbs turned back to the road, hiding his face as his smile turned to a grin.

For several minutes, silence returned. Then Ziva spoke again.

"It is very much rooted in religion in Israel."

"Isn't everything?" Gibbs asked, and Ziva laughed a little, granting him the point.

"It does seem so. But the more orthodox a person is, the more likely they are to believe that being homosexual is a sinful choice. Nonetheless, the sexual choices of young men do not preclude them from military service. It is required by law that all able-bodied men serve. It is the duty of being Israeli."

"Different history breeds different duties," Gibbs said by way of explaining her second point. Then he continued. "Homosexuality is all about religion in America, too. Religious conservatives believe it's a choice. The liberals believe there is no choice: it's genetic."

"And what do you believe?" Ziva asked.

Gibbs shrugged. "Live your life with honor, stay off my case load, and like I said: Why the hell should I care?"

* * *

to be continued...

Oooo... there be clues there. Didya catch 'em?


	12. Part 11

**One Less - Part 11**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Back at the Navy Yard right before lunch, Gibbs stopped in at autopsy.

"Jethro, how nice of you to visit," Ducky said as he entered. The medical examiner was sitting on a rolling stool next to one of the autopsy tables. He had files and papers spread across the table in front of him, and he was studying something. The medical reports Gibbs had told McGee to pull.

"What do you have for me, Duck?"

"A mountain of paperwork, and before you ask, I haven't had nearly enough time to give these reports more than a preliminary review."

"Tell me," Gibbs said. He pulled up another stool.

"I only have the initial reports, you understand. The material NCIS would have received immediately following the incidents as part of the investigation. Records of subsequent treatment are not readily available, though I'm certain our young Timothy will produce them as soon as he is able."

"Anything interesting?" Gibbs asked.

"As I said, I've only had a chance to read half of what's here, and certainly haven't had enough time to form an official opinion. But yes, I have found something interesting."

Ducky flipped back several pages in the yellow legal pad he'd been taking notes on. Page after page was covered with his precise handwriting, and Gibbs wondered if it was all about this case. If so, Ducky had clearly done more than a 'preliminary review.'

"I started with the most significantly injured sailors, examining their list of initial injuries. I understand you are already aware that with the exception of Major Ortiz and Lt. Hutchinson…"

"All the injuries were serious enough to cause them to retire, but not to permanently disable," Gibbs interrupted.

"Correct. For instance, in the spring of 2004, Petty Officer First Class Martin Banuelos. Three crushed vertebrae in his low back as the result of repeated strikes with a blunt object. Declared unfit for duty and honorably discharged six months later. Enough damage that the poor fellow will undoubtedly have chronic back pain the rest of his life. But he could have easily been paralyzed, had the damage occurred six inches higher up his spine. And this one: Lt. Junior Grade Dustin Nguyen, injured in Jamaica in 2003. Again, blunt object impacts, only this time both elbows and forearms fractured. Required replacing the radius and ulna bones in both arms as well as his left elbow joint with artificial bone. Declared unfit and discharged in November of that year. There was speculation by the attending physician that he had been trying to ward off blows, but I think the damage was intentionally placed on his arms."

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"Why do I think that?" When Gibbs nodded, Ducky continued. "Picture it." He got off his stool and raised his arms in front of himself in a boxer's stance.

"You strike out at me, and I put up my arms to block you." He raised his forearms over his face. "What do I do now?"

"You turn away," Gibbs said.

"Correct." Ducky turned sideways, exposing his shoulder and the back of his upper arm. "Which would mean a continued attack would cause damage to the shoulder and upper arm. But there are no impact injuries to those areas. Only to his forearms and elbows." Ducky sat back down.

"Again, painful and debilitating enough to end a Naval career, but I doubt he had any long-term disability. It's like the attackers were doing it on purpose."

"To get them out of the Navy," Gibbs said.

"Right."

"One Less," Gibbs said.

"Precisely," Ducky said. "But why?"

"Working on it." Gibbs thought for a moment. "Would this kind of thing require special medical knowledge? To cause that kind of injury without permanent damage?"

"Not necessarily. Any military medic or reasonably competent first aider would know enough." Gibbs rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Couldn't make it easier for me," he said.

"Where would be the challenge in that, Jethro?" Ducky said.

"McGee's having some trouble getting the medical records and cause of death for Major Ortiz. Anything you can do to help him out?" Gibbs asked.

"He mentioned that. Very odd, that it would be left as unknown. You do know what that typically means?"

"Somebody screwed up."

"Yes. But probably not the way you're thinking. If his death was likely to expose the military to serious liability for instance, the medical examiner might be induced to list death as unknown cause. That would eliminate have to admit fault up front."

"What kind of fault?" Gibbs asked.

"I can think of a few things the Navy and Marine Corps would not want to freely admit: Friendly fire incidents, contaminant or toxin exposure, misdiagnosis that lead to death."

"Or a politically incorrect cause of death," Gibbs said as the light went on in his head.

"What are you thinking, Jethro?" Ducky asked. Gibbs stood.

"Not yet. Call me when you're done with these. And see if you can get us a look at Ortiz's records."

"Of course," Ducky said as Gibbs headed out.

"Politically incorrect cause of death," Ducky mused. "Hmm…" He returned to the files.

* * *

That could have gone better, Tony thought as he looked around the compartment he'd been assigned aboard the Roosevelt. He'd presented himself to the Officer of the Deck at the gangway check-point, been issued a temporary ship's ID, and been directed to the housing office for a berth. As a civilian and a law enforcement officer, the agent afloat was typically assigned private berthing in a compartment designed for two mid-level officers, adjacent to the NCIS office. This was partly because as neither officer nor enlisted, the agent was not in the chain of command and answered only to the Captain and his designees. Within the framework of life aboard ship, an Agent Afloat could pretty much do as he pleased. This, naturally, made it difficult to develop camaraderie with those who were duty-bound to follow every edict from the Navy and every order from anyone with more stripes or stars. But there was another reason for solo living: No one – not even senior officers – wanted to share quarters with the local constable.

Nonetheless, since DiNozzo was here to see what if anything Fredrick knew about the attacks, Capt. McNally had ordered him berthed with Fredrick. Meaning he would be sharing quarters with their main suspect. Great. This was going to be a real party. Tony prayed he'd be home before the ship sailed on Saturday.

After dropping his duffel and the linens the quartermaster had issued him on the vacant rack in Fredrick's quarters, DiNozzo had rapped smartly on the door that connected the compartment to the NCIS office and stepped through. The reception he'd received from Fredrick could have charitably been called cold, but was closer to downright hostile. Apparently no one had told the agent he was about to have company. Tony had shown him the written orders he'd picked up at administration that morning, then laid out their cover story: he was here at the request of Capt. McNally and Senior Special Agent Gibbs to audit reporting procedures in light of the delay in filing a missing person's report on Petty Officer Ferrara. He thought it was a waste of time, but what could he do, he was just a cog in the wheel.

Short story was that Fredrick had been pissed. As much as Tony tried to smooth it over, Fredrick was certain someone at headquarters was accusing him of something. Tony had worked it hard, while at the same time trying not to seem to be working it too hard, and he thought the conversation had ended in a draw. DiNozzo would start going through files and Fredrick would leave him to it.

Meantime, DiNozzo had to unpack his gear. He'd brought minimal clothing, a week's worth of khakis and NCIS polo shirts in various colors, plus one outfit that would do if there were any semi-formal events while he was aboard. Life on ship for an NCIS agent was casual, but there was still a uniform of sorts. He'd brought only a few personal items: His shaving kit, his own cell phone, his iPod, and a few paperbacks. He also had an agency laptop and cell phone that he would use for his undercover persona. The clothes went into an upright locker at the end of the pair of racks, the rest of it into the smaller locker underneath the upper rack. He made sure his regular cell was turned off before stashing it in the back of the small locker. He secured both lockers with the key he'd been given and hung it by its chain around his neck. Finally, he made the bed.

Tasks accomplished, DiNozzo set off to find the mess. It wasn't lunch time yet, but in the Navy, there's the quick and there's the hungry, and DiNozzo didn't want to miss a meal looking for the dining room.

* * *

Gibbs' next chore was one he was not looking forward to. Since discovering the identity of the most recent victim, Master Chief Goetz, Gibbs had known he would have to talk to him, and that Goetz was not likely to want to hear from him. Never mind that NCIS had obliquely accused the man of murder – twice – but then they'd failed to solve an assault that had ended his career.

At least Gibbs wasn't going to have to ask the big question. When Gibbs had hauled Goetz into interrogation in 2004 and demanded the Chief provide an alibi for the time of a murder, Goetz hadn't wanted to give one. After asking to speak off the record, he'd finally admitted that he'd spent the night on station with a friend. Even then, he'd refused to give a name. It hadn't taken much of a leap for Gibbs to understand that when Goetz said he'd spent his first night home after a six-month cruise with a friend, they hadn't spent it discussing politics. He'd told Goetz he wasn't looking to ruin careers, and it had been the truth. Gibbs had guessed that Goetz's friend was an officer – which alone would have gotten one or both of them court-martialed for fraternization – but he'd had no idea that the officer friend would also turn out to be a man.

Gibbs had kept his word. Unable to risk the friend denying Goetz's alibi to save his own career, Gibbs had taken a cheek swab for DNA comparison to their unknown suspect and used it to positively rule out Goetz as a suspect. Their paths had never crossed again, and based on Goetz's subsequent promotions to Master Chief, he had continued his successful Naval career. If someone had discovered Goetz was gay and used that as an excuse to beat him – and if Goetz had put it together – chances were the Master Chief was not going to be happy talking to the one man in the chain of command to whom he had admitted his sexual orientation.

But it couldn't be helped. As the most recent victim before Ferrara, his story would have the most value to them. Which meant Gibbs had to talk to him. And since Goetz was still an employee of the Navy – though a civilian now – chances were he wasn't going to want to talk about this to anyone who didn't already know he was gay. So Gibbs would do it alone.

* * *

to be continued...

Comments and reviews welcome, as always.


	13. Part 12

**One Less - Part 12**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

National Naval Medical Center, formerly and still familiarly known as Bethesda Naval Hospital, was located about 12 miles from the Navy Yard. In mid-day traffic, it was the same half-hour to 45 minute drive whether he took surface streets or chose the 24-mile freeway route. So Gibbs grabbed lunch and a fresh coffee and set out across Washington. He drove out to M Street, turning west toward the Potomac River and around the Tidal Basin. Cutting north along 17th Street Southeast, he crossed the National Mall between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial.

The circle of flags around Washington's concrete tower were snapping hard. The promise of snow had turned into something more sinister. Likely they were in for a storm. Probably before nightfall. He'd have McGee check the weather channel when he got back. Depending on what he found over the next few hours, maybe he'd send them all home early. He'd definitely send Abby and Ducky on their way, if it looked bad. It wouldn't hurt him to call it a short day either: the headache he'd first felt on the way back from Hutchinson's house had continued to build.

He glanced to his left at the new World War II Memorial, and as had become his habit whenever he passed memorials to fallen service members, he took a moment to silently acknowledge their sacrifice. Then it was past the White House, onto Connecticut Avenue, and five miles straight to the Maryland state line. Two miles after that, he arrived at the hospital's main gate.

Gibbs presented his ID and told the Navy guard what he was looking for. He was given an official visitor parking pass and directed to a building on the far east end of the base. There, he again presented ID at the medical school office and was told by a civilian receptionist that Master Chief Goetz was at lunch. Gibbs turned on the charm and she finally told him he'd probably find Chief Goetz in his office, then told him where to find it.

Gibbs hadn't called ahead. If the situation was what he feared, Goetz wasn't going to want to talk to him. And as a victim and not a suspect this time, that would be his choice. Gibbs was therefore not at all surprised that after he knocked on the closed office door he'd been directed to and was bade enter, Goetz was not happy to see him.

"You find another dead body at Norfolk?" was the first thing he said. He was sitting at an uncluttered desk, reading a thick book and eating a salad of some kind out of a plastic container. A large bottle of water was sweating in the warm room. He was wearing a set of NNMC scrubs in light green. A pair of metal arm-cuff crutches leaned against the wall next to him, and a standard hospital-issue wheelchair was folded up in the corner. Gibbs could not see the condition of Goetz's legs, hidden as they were under the desk.

Goetz had aged a lot in the years since Gibbs had last seen him. His short hair was more salt than pepper, his face thin and haggard. He'd lost a lot of weight: He couldn't have been carrying 160 lbs on his 6'2 frame. He'd grown a beard and moustache which were neatly and closely trimmed, but when added to the gauntness of his face made him look slightly scruffy nonetheless. A pair of reading glasses sat low on his nose.

"Good afternoon, Master Chief. Nice place you've got here," Gibbs said. And it was. The office was small, but it was furnished a step above government-issue, and had a large window with a view of a baseball diamond and the Chevy Chase Recreation Area beyond. The desk was perpendicular to the window, against the shorter wall of the office. A visitor's chair sat next to one end of the desk.

"More room than a compartment on a carrier," Goetz said. "What did I do to get noticed by NCIS this time?"

Gibbs glanced purposefully at the visitor's chair, and with a small sigh, Goetz closed his book, pulled off his glasses, and gestured for Gibbs to sit. He took a swig from the water bottle.

"I understand you were assaulted in Greece," Gibbs said by way of opener.

Goetz put the bottle down, a little harder than strictly necessary, Gibbs thought. "Last April. Attacked by unknown assailants, case unsolved despite the best efforts of local authorities and NCIS." Goetz was trying for casual, but he was barely making civil.

"My team is reopening your case," Gibbs said.

"Why?" Goetz asked. "It's not yours."

"A Petty Officer Third was killed in Washington over the weekend. Last seen alive Saturday night in the Dupont area, 1500 block of 17th Northwest."

Goetz's eyes widened momentarily, then he looked away from Gibbs, out the window. There was almost a minute of uncomfortable silence.

"What does that have to do with me?" Goetz finally asked without turning back to Gibbs. "I was attacked more than 5,000 miles from there."

"Did you know that since 9/11, you were the ninth Roosevelt crew member to be forcibly retired after falling victim to an aggravated assault while on shore leave?"

"Yes," Goetz said.

"Yes?" Gibbs said, startled at the straight answer. Now, Goetz did look back at him.

"It's actually been 11. You've missed a couple." He took in Gibbs' startled look and continued. "I was wondering when someone would put it together and realize the attacks were connected. And why."

Gibbs stared openly at him. He couldn't get his mind around what he was hearing.

"Some reason you didn't bring this connection to anyone's attention?" he asked finally. There was a touch of anger in his voice that he couldn't quite conceal.

"You know the reason," Goetz said flatly.

"So you knew what was going on and said nothing, to protect yourself?" Gibbs said. "Not what I would expect from a Master Chief."

"Don't give me that, Gibbs," Goetz said sharply. "What would you have me do? Expose myself, get dishonorably discharged, and see the whole thing swept under the rug? Even before they picked me, there was nothing I could have done. If sacrificing myself would have helped catch whoever's doing this, I would have done it in a heartbeat. But the Navy doesn't care. It doesn't want us there, and it's more than happy to see us leave, no matter the circumstances."

"That's not true," Gibbs said, rather lamely.

"The hell it isn't. There've been 11 victims in six years, 12 if your homicide victim is one of them, and no one's done squat. Any reasonably competent investigator would have known after the first couple that something was up, but no one did a thing. No one cared."

"Until now."

"Maybe until now. And why the sudden interest? The dead sailor belong to someone important?" Gibbs heard echoes of the accusation flung by Lt. Hutchinson's partner and clenched his jaw.

"The cases never crossed my desk before now," Gibbs said. "Of the nine we know about before this homicide, eight were committed overseas. They were never forwarded to Major Case."

"And why do you suppose that was?" Goetz asked, sarcasm clear in his voice.

Gibbs shook his head. "No reason they would have been. They were seen as single events, and unless they happened in our area, there would be no reason for the cases to reach us."

"So you honestly think no one at NCIS headquarters noticed all these similar unsolved cases on one carrier – not just in one theatre of operation, but on the same damn ship? Tell me another tale, Special Agent Gibbs." Goetz virtually spat out the title.

Gibbs took a second to control his suddenly rising temper. He understood Goetz's bitterness, and Gibbs, too, was pissed what had been allowed to happen. But letting his anger out here and now wouldn't help.

"I can't tell you what happened before now. It's possible someone has been ignoring the connections. It's also possible that no one outside of this ever put it together. But we've put it together now, and my team is going to find the son-of-a-bitch responsible."

Goetz stared at him and Gibbs held his gaze, letting the Master Chief read him. If they were going to solve this thing, Gibbs was going to need all the help he could get. If Goetz had figured out the connections even before his own attack, he probably had insight that would be valuable. Gibbs would do whatever it took to convince this man of his sincerity.

"Let's take a walk," Goetz said suddenly, and pushed back his chair. He spun it around so he was facing the room and reached for the crutches, snapping his forearms into the cuffs. With a sudden straightening of his elbows, he stood upright. He swayed for a second, but stabilized even as Gibbs rose to help. Gibbs aborted the gesture.

Both of Goetz's legs were encased from toes to mid-thigh in braces made of steel, hard plastic and Velcro. The scrub pants were actually long shorts, ending just above his knees and hiding the tops of the braces. After doing something to both braces near his knees, he started out of the office, Gibbs following in his wake. In a process that looked downright arduous, Goetz swung both legs forward as a unit, then balanced on the braces as long as it took to move the crutches into place for the next step. He'd locked the knee joints when he stood, Gibbs realized, making it possible to balance on the braces without his legs folding under him.

The hallways were virtually empty, and they only passed a couple of people as they moved through the building. Gibbs wasn't sure where they were going or why, but he was willing to follow Goetz's lead. They crossed through a breezeway into a second building, then entered a large gymnasium. There, in small groupings here and there around the gym, individuals and small groups were exercising. No, Gibbs realized almost immediately, not exercising, doing physical therapy. Goetz started across the room toward the opposite side.

"I spent the first three weeks drugged pretty much out of my mind, first on the Roosevelt, then at Ramstein. When I was aware at all, the pain was intolerable. They broke my legs and beat the bottoms of my feet, just for fun as far as I've been able to tell. That alone wouldn't have ended my career. But then they cut my Achilles, tried to make sure I'd never walk unaided again."

Goetz stopped to greet a patient and therapist working between a set of parallel bars. He knew them both by name and made encouraging small talk with them for a moment before moving on.

"A month in a wheelchair followed that," he continued when they were out of earshot of the pair. "Couldn't have borne weight on my feet even if they hadn't cut my tendons. The nerve damage made every step feel like walking on hot coals. Two surgeries to try and reattach the tendons, eventually a replacement of the right one. The bones healed enough to replace casts with braces. Then I started PT. I thought I knew pain before then. But nothing had prepared me for that."

Gibbs merely nodded. He could relate. He'd been there himself, after the artillery attack that had ended his own military career.

"It's gotten better. I still go three days a week, home exercises the other days. With short braces at the beginning of the day, I can walk 50 meters or so without crutches. With no braces at all, a few steps at the most whether I'm tired or not. Getting across campus requires the chair. The nerves are still tender, and the tendons are still stiff. It's taking longer than it should."

"Longer than it should? Or just longer than you want it to?" Gibbs couldn't help but ask. Goetz looked at him with a wry expression.

"You've had the pleasure?"

"At this hospital," Gibbs said simply. This was Goetz's time for stories, and he wouldn't share his own now, even if he might have under other circumstances.

They again stopped to talk to another pair, this one a young sailor throwing a beach ball back and forth with a female therapist. Both his arms were gone below the elbow, and he was working hard to catch and return the ball with prosthetic arms, each try showing effort and concentration. Goetz joked with the sailor, flirted with the therapist, then lead Gibbs out through the opposite side of the gym.

A few doors down they entered the medical school's chapel. It was small, with three short rows of pews on each side of a center aisle, an altar the size of a school teacher's desk, and a small rack of candles off to one side. Some effort had been made to make it inter-denominational, but the major influence was clearly Catholic. Goetz leaned a hip against the rear-most pew and quickly crossed himself, the crutch dangling from his forearm. He planted the crutches slightly in front of himself, then bent his elbows to dip his head and shoulders in a kind of bow. The best he could do for a genuflect, Gibbs realized. He followed Goetz to the front row left. Goetz unlocked the knee joints in his braces, and they sat. The two men spent a minute looking at the altar and the cross on the wall behind it.

"I like to come here sometimes, think about things," Goetz said quietly. His voice had softened, almost hushed in the small room. There were no windows, and only the candles and a few recessed low-wattage wall sconces lit the space. Gibbs waited. He knew Goetz would get to it in his own time.

"There's got to be at least two of them, maybe three or four," Goetz said after awhile. "They would have to have been aboard since we sailed in January 2003 at the latest. And at least one of them has to be an O-4, E-7 or better."

"Why?" Gibbs asked. He, too, pitched his voice low in deference to their location.

"There's an early curfew for junior officers and all but most senior enlisted when TR's in foreign ports. Makes accountability easier. Everyone doesn't arrive back at once. I was on track to just make it back in time for the later curfew when I got hit. If at least one of them's a mid-level officer, he could sign in the rest of them regardless of rank."

"Could be someone doctoring the logs. Covering for them. Or maybe they had permission."

"TR's on her third command in the last six years. The executive staffs of three administrations couldn't all have been involved."

"Makes sense. Why at least two?" Gibbs asked. Nicky had reported seeing three, but he wondered why Goetz thought that way.

"Would have taken at least two to take down Brisbin. The kid is 6'7, weighs nearly 300 lbs."

"One well-placed hit to the base of the skull would have knocked him unconscious. Isn't that what happened to you?"

"I'm not exactly sure what happened to me. I was pretty drunk. It would have been easy to sneak up on me. And Brisbin had no head injury. He was conscious when they shoved a sharp instrument into his ears and tore up his eardrums."

Gibbs flinched involuntarily. He hadn't read the medical reports yet and the brutality of that was startling.

"Any thoughts on who it might be?" Gibbs asked.

"Thoughts. Nothing concrete." He paused, turning away from Gibbs to look at the rack of candles. "The Agent Afloat would be a likely candidate."

"Already working on it," Gibbs said, making Goetz turn back and look at him with surprise. "But how would he find out about sailor's orientation?"

"Some guys aren't careful. On a ship, once one person knows, everyone knows."

"Who knew about you?" Gibbs asked.

"As far as I know, other than my partner you're the only person in the Navy that knew. So who'd you tell?"

"No one."

"No one?" Goetz challenged.

"Not even my team. It was no one's business then, and it's no one's business now."

Again, Goetz seemed to weigh him.

"I'm not in the Navy anymore," Goetz said. "Bill and I broke up after I was injured; we'd been together six years. We were having some trouble, but we were working through it. I'd been talking to an old friend, getting some advice on how to make it work. We would have been fine. But he couldn't take the risk of being connected to me if the motive for the attacks ever came out. It was the final straw." Goetz paused to control his emotion. "I've already lost just about everything I could lose if it became public knowledge."

"Doesn't matter. It's still your choice to make it public or not."

Goetz heaved a sigh. "What does my choice of who I fall in love with have to do with my ability – my right – to serve my country?"

"It doesn't," Gibbs said.

"Someone thought it did," Goetz said. He punched his right thigh above the brace. "Someone sure as hell thought it did."

Gibbs had nothing to say to that, really.

"As far as I know, no one else knew" Goetz repeated after a minute. "I'd been in the Navy almost 18 years. Five Good Conduct meals, two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star. As a medic, I helped save the lives of more sailors and Marines than I can remember. There was never a day of that time when I wasn't gay. So why, on that day in Crete, did I suddenly become unworthy of the uniform?"

Gibbs reached over and put a hand on Goetz's arm. "You didn't, Master Chief. You weren't unworthy then, and you're not now. You've lived a life of honor and been a tribute to your country. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Goetz covered Gibbs' hand with his own. He took a deep breath and let it out.

"Thank you. How can I help?"

They talked for another 30 minutes. As the most senior member of the enlisted medical staff, Goetz had been called every time a significant injury occurred. He'd seen the injuries, heard the stories, and started to wonder. He told Gibbs he knew Lt. JG Brisbin was gay, because the young sailor had come to him for some antibiotics after a one-night-stand had injured him. Goetz was quick to explain that Brisbin hadn't come to him because he thought Goetz was gay, but because as an enlisted man, he'd figured Goetz was a better bet than the ship's doctor for getting him the treatment he needed and not turning him in if the cause of his injury was obvious. Not that he'd admitted anything. Goetz had figured that out himself.

Goetz had also had his suspicions about Major Ortiz, he said. The Major had spent several weeks in the ship's infirmary recovering from a wicked case of salmonella poisoning he'd picked up at a foreign eatery. Several times while Goetz was on duty in the infirmary, he'd caught Ortiz looking at him with hunger in his eyes. Like maybe he had a crush on Goetz. But neither of them had ever said anything about it.

Lt. Hutchinson, if he was actually gay, was a surprise, Goetz said. He passed very well.

When Gibbs asked Goetz how he'd finally made the connection, Goetz told him he'd read the reports. Which ones? All of them. Medical, local investigation, NCIS investigation, personnel. Medical staff at his level could access pretty much anything they could justify. He'd found the similarities between the attacks, between the victims, and had gone looking for more commonalities. He told Gibbs what he'd found, adding several new things to the victim profile they were building: All of the victims had been on at least their second cruise with the Big Stick. All were rated highly proficient on their FITREPS, had received good conduct medals, and had at least one letter of commendation from a superior in their files. Each had finished in the top ten of any training they'd taken, right back to boot camp. They were all planning on a military career. They were all Catholic.

That fact had stopped Gibbs. The rest of the similarities could be said of thousands of members of all of the armed services. Good performance bred good reviews and officers usually weren't shy about making sure their subordinates got noticed: Subordinates who exceed expectations made officers look good. But to have them all come from the same religious group, that was too much coincidence. They'd ranged from highly devout to barely observant, Goetz said, but every one of them had listed Catholic as their preferred religion. And every one of them was wearing a crucifix or Saint's medal when they were attacked.

Since he'd mentioned reading the medical reports, Gibbs played a long shot and asked if Goetz had accessed Ortiz's records. He said he had.

"Do you still have them? Gibbs asked.

"I didn't make copies, just notes on what I found. I have those at home. The records were sealed pretty tight, and it's no wonder. Once I got a look at his history… the Department of Defense couldn't wash their hands of him quickly enough."

"What was his cause of death?" Gibbs asked.

"Officially, cause unknown. In fact, he was septic and died of multiple system failure." When Gibbs' expression showed lack of understanding, Goetz elaborated. "It was a massive infection."

Gibbs frowned. "Why keep that secret?"

"Because they could have fixed it," Goetz said. "He died because the medical care he was receiving at the VA was sub-standard. Basically, no one cared enough to treat the infection. When he left the ICU at Ramstein, he was well on the way to recovery. He'd suffered a significant brain injury, but his recovery potential was high: he could have regained some of his independence eventually. But once he got to San Diego, his rehabilitation ground to a halt. He spent the next year slowly dying. And no one cared. They just warehoused him, did the minimum to keep him alive. Eventually they even stopped that."

"Didn't he have family?"

"His family was embarrassed by him. He had severe injuries that were clearly sexually-motivated, and they were ashamed they had a gay son. They signed a 'Do Not Resuscitate' order shortly after he arrived in San Diego. Staff at the VA interpreted that to mean 'Do Not Treat.' He was a decorated Marine officer, and they just let him die." Goetz's voice showed his disgust over that.

Gibbs took a breath. He understood prejudice, and shame. But he found it hard to believe that a family would intentionally choose to let their son die when he could have just as well lived.

"They didn't even bury him," Goetz said after a minute. Gibbs frowned.

"What?" he asked.

"His family never collected his body. They signed him over to AFIP, which did whatever the hell it is they do over there, and then he was cremated. I haven't been able to find out what they did with the ashes. For all I know, they used them to de-ice the sidewalks."

Gibbs felt his anger tick up one more notch, and made a mental note to have Ducky call the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology and find out what had happened to the Major's remains. That, at least, they could do.

"You know, I always figured something else was going on with his case, especially after I found the others," Goetz said.

"How so?" Gibbs asked, trying to refocus on the matter at hand.

"He was brutally raped. Intentionally torn up inside. None of the others were sexually assaulted. Plus the severity of the head injury. Whoever got to him was carrying a lot of rage. That one might have had a more personal motive. Besides, he's been the only Marine."

"You think it might have been someone he hooked up with on board?" Gibbs asked. "A domestic violence thing?"

"Or someone he met while he was out. Maybe he hit on the wrong Arab." Goetz shrugged. "The severity of his injuries didn't fit the pattern they'd established up to that time. They'd never gone so far before."

"And yet they have twice since."

"I know. It doesn't make any sense. Ortiz was brutalized, then Hutchinson was paralyzed, then Brisbin was virtually deafened but not otherwise hurt. Then me – painful as hell, but likely not permanently debilitating – and now they kill someone? What was his cause of death?"

Gibbs understood they were talking about Ferrara. "Blunt force trauma leading to brain and spinal injuries," he supplied.

"Like Ortiz. Any sexual trauma?"

"No."

Goetz sighed. "It doesn't make any sense," he repeated.

Gibbs agreed. They talked for a few more minutes, Gibbs asking if Goetz knew anything about Ferrara. Goetz did. He'd been involved in Ferrara's initial emergency treatment after the deck accident aboard the Roosevelt, and had seen him in the infirmary a couple of times since his return to the carrier. Nothing significant, he said. Just the usual minor ailments that every sailor experienced from time to time, plus check-ups on the amputation. They'd chatted from time to time but Goetz told Gibbs he hadn't gotten any hint that Ferrara was gay. Gibbs asked and got the names of the two cases Goetz thought fit the pattern that Abby hadn't included. One of them had been closed when the victim changed his story a week after his attack, telling investigators that he'd actually gotten into a barroom brawl with several locals over a woman. He'd received several serious gashes to the face and head – initially he'd said a knife, but it the new story it became a broken bottle – and ended up blind in one eye. Goetz knew that sailor was gay, had actually seen him once in a gay nightclub while overseas. Goetz suspected the brawl story was a cover-up provided when local investigators asked the sailor to provide evidence of where he'd been that night. Since he couldn't prove he'd been somewhere he hadn't, it was easier to admit lying, do a few days penalty at Captain's Mast – if he ever recovered enough to return to the Navy – and let the case close.

The other case was the one that most interested Gibbs. Late in 2005, a Petty Officer Second had fought his attackers and gotten away before any permanent damage was done. A badly broken arm had required surgery to repair, but his job in the Navy – as a culinary specialist – didn't require his arm be 100 percent, so he'd been able to return to service. Contacting that sailor was definitely next on his list.

Gibbs thanked Goetz, promised to keep him in the loop as much as he could, then left him in the chapel and headed back to the Navy Yard.

* * *

to be continued...

Reviews and comments are always welcome.


	14. Part 13

**Those who're reading along as this story is posted, please note:**

There's been a strange development in the traffic patterns for this story, and it's got me a little worried. On the occasions when I've posted two chapters at once, the first chapter I post for the night gets, say, 50 hits from 50 distinct visitors. The second chapter for the same night gets, say, 100 hits from 100 distinct visitors. It looks to me like when I post two chapters at once, some of you are missing the first chapter posted and going directly to the most recently posted one. So, if you've been reading this as its parts are posted, please check and make sure you've hit them all. There's pieces of the puzzle in every chapter, and I'd hate for anyone to miss something important.

Now, back to the story...

* * *

**One Less - Part 13**

**by joy katleen**

* * *

On the way back to the office, Gibbs called McGee and told him to pull the files and forensics on the two additional cases. He put Ziva on the task of locating the sailor who'd escaped his attackers, and setting up an interview as soon as possible. He also called Tony. DiNozzo had reported to the Roosevelt before they'd discovered the motive for the attacks, and he needed an update.

"So how do you want me to play it, Boss?" DiNozzo asked when Gibbs finished his explanation.

Gibbs had been trying to decide that all afternoon. Chances were they were going to have to set a trap to catch whoever was doing this: The dirtbags had been careful up to now, and eyewitness accounts were unlikely to get this one solved. The best bait would have been Tony, posing as a gay sailor. His handsome looks and the easy way he related to just about everyone would have made him a natural. But he was already known as an NCIS agent. Ziva was female and wouldn't catch their suspect's attention. McGee couldn't do it. He had many skills, but passing as a sailor wasn't one of them. Gibbs himself could have played the part, but Fredrick already knew who he was. Which left them without bait. Unless he wanted to bring in an agent he didn't know, which would certainly be his last choice. On the other hand, the closest two attacks had come more than three months apart, so the chances of them being ready to launch another one this soon was remote. Especially if Ferrara's death had been an accident. They'd likely be a little spooked.

"Show Fredrick you're aggressively straight, moderately homophobic, and slightly offended at the idea of gays serving in the military. Oh, and be Catholic."

"Why?" DiNozzo asked.

"All of the victims were."

"Which means chances are good that so are at least some of the perps," DiNozzo said. "It's been a long time since Catechism, Boss."

"They ranged from devout to lapsed. Just play the part." In the background Gibbs heard the sudden roar of a jet engine starting up. Gibbs pulled the phone away from his ear as the noise peaked, ran high for thirty seconds, then wound down. With the carrier docked, it wouldn't be a launch. Probably an engine test. When the noise subsided, Gibbs continued.

"Couldn't find anywhere else to take a phone call, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked. He could picture where DiNozzo was standing: in or near one of the doorways leading to the flight deck, four and a half acres of smooth steel around him, the control tower rising above his head. Gibbs had spent his fair share of time talking in those doorways as both a Marine on the way to or from deployment, and as an NCIS agent. It was one of the few places on a carrier where privacy could almost be guaranteed. But there were other, more quiet places DiNozzo could have chosen.

"Didn't want anyone overhearing."

"How'd Fredrick take your arrival?" Gibbs asked.

"He's pissed. Given what you've just told me, I think I can work with it, though."

"Good," Gibbs said, and hung up.

His phone rang again almost immediately, startling him. He answered without looking. "Gibbs."

"Where are you?" It was Abby.

"On my way back from Bethesda," he answered.

"Good. Come see me when you get here."

"You have something?" Gibbs asked. He could hear excitement in her voice.

"Yes. But you've got to see it. How long will you be?"

Gibbs scanned the streets around himself. Traffic was in the mid-afternoon lull. Which was to say, only moderately backed up.

"Maybe 15, 20 minutes."

"It'll hold that long. Bye." She hung up first, which Gibbs knew made her smile.

Stopping only for a refill on his coffee and a Caf-Pow for Abby, Gibbs went straight to her lab on his arrival back at headquarters. Abby was sitting at the evidence table on one of her stools, using a small space in the center of one side of the table to look at what appeared to be printed DNA cards. The rest of the table, and most of the floor around it, was covered with plastic evidence tubs. The old evidence from the open assault cases. She was casually dressed today, for her. Baggy black jeans dangling with thick silver chains, a studded belt holding them up, black engineer's boots, a black and red striped shirt, with what looked like a red dog collar around her neck. Her hair was in low ponytails, each tied with hair bands shaped like skulls. And as usual, her white lab coat over it all.

"What'da you got?" he asked as he swept through the doors.

"Spiders," Abby said and took the Caf-Pow from him. "Lots of them." Gibbs could have sworn he saw her shiver.

"I thought you liked spiders," Gibbs said.

"In theory, one or two at a time. There was a nest. With babies. Hundreds of them." This time, she did shiver.

"You get rid of them?" he asked.

"I banged them out of the bucket outside. I think I got them all. You gotta tell those people over at the evidence vault to call the Terminix man."

"I'll put it on my list."

"Thank you. Here's what I found." She lined up 13 DNA cards in two rows on the table. Gibbs stood beside her, looking over her shoulder.

"Here are the cards from six of the cases we've identified, in order of attack. They're the only ones we have where viable DNA samples were recovered, and they represent the first, second, fourth, eighth and ninth attacks in the time line, plus this is what I got from under Petty Officer Ferrara's fingernails. By the way, there was no match in the criminal database on that one, either."

Sensing this was going to take some time, Gibbs pulled up a second stool and sat beside Abby at the table.

"So, what do you see?" she asked when he was seated. Gibbs looked. The cards were print outs of what he saw every time Abby ran a DNA comparison: columns of lines and dashes that looked they'd been photographed and then photocopied. He pulled his glasses out of his pocket and put them on, then looked again.

"I see what I always see. Lines and dashes."

Abby rolled her eyes. "Look at the differences and the similarities between the lines."

He looked a little harder. He knew that each card contained genetic maps of a sample of DNA recovered from a crime scene. Gibbs thought one of the lines on the card to the far right looked similar to one on the card second from the left. He also thought two of the cards in the middle looked similar. He reached around Abby to match up the similar ones.

"These contain matching samples," Gibbs said.

"There you go," Abby said, punching him lightly in the arm. "What else?" He looked some more.

"These lines match," he said, pointing to one of the lines on the card now second from the left and another line on the card now left in the middle. He put one above the other to more closely examine the matching lines.

"Correct again, oh wise one." Abby put her palms together in front of her chest and bowed slightly toward him. Gibbs refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just.

"So, what, is it the same guy or not?" he asked.

"Sometimes," Abby said. Gibbs gave her an exasperated look.

"No, really. Here's what I think is happening." She put the cards back in the order they'd been in.

"This and this are the from the same donor," she said, indicating the right two cards. "And so are these." She again pointed out two similar lines on the cards to the left. "But the four of them don't match each other. And here's another similar match, almost three years apart." She pointed. "But these don't match each other or any of the other samples we have." She indicated lines on other cards.

"What does it mean?"

"I've sorted them out like this." She turned away from the table and hopped off her stool, going to the center console computers. She worked for a minute, then picked up the remote for her plasma and clicked it on. Gibbs stood and went over to the wall-mounted screen.

"DNA from three sources was left at the first crime scene. We'll call them suspects A, B, and C. At the second scene, two samples. A and B again. Then the fourth attack, we've got C again, plus three new donors, suspects D, E and F. They got careless that time. Then for crime number eight…" She saw she was losing him, and changed the view.

"This is bottom line." She put up a picture of six boxes, each with a name of a victim underneath, and a letter representing each of the suspect DNA samples in the box. No suspect was involved in more than two crimes, and several were only involved in one. Gibbs immediately noticed that the sample from the Ferrara crime scene matched one of the three samples recovered from Master Chief Goetz.

"It's not three guys. It's a damn conspiracy," Gibbs said.

"Looks that way," Abby said with an expression that was part apologetic at being the bearer of bad news and part compassion for the increase in her team's workload this would cause. "At least eight distinct individuals were involved in these six attacks. And no single individual has left DNA at all of the scenes."

"Eight people?" Gibbs said incredulously.

"Sorry, Gibbs."

"Not your fault, Abs," Gibbs said. "You get the two new cases yet?"

"McGee called to say they were coming, but nothing yet."

"Alright. Work the evidence. See if you can find any concrete connections. With unconnected DNA, we're going to need more than a string of coincidences to make this case."

"Thought you didn't believe in coincidences," Abby said.

"I don't. But juries sometimes do."

"Copy that. Oh, and I have a couple more things." She skipped over to her computers and started tapping keys. "I found a match on the DOJ database for the fibers from Petty Officer Ferrara's clothes." She showed him the match.

"It's a wool-cotton-neoprene blend, black. Positively matched to cold-weather gloves issued to seven agencies of the federal government: Army, Navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, FBI, DOJ and us."

"Us?" Gibbs asked. He couldn't remember being issued gloves as part of his field gear.

"Yeah. But only to new FLETC graduates beginning in 2005. It was a union thing."

"Any civilian use?"

"That particular blend was specially designed to federal specs. Warm, durable and waterproof. Not available retail, but you could probably find them in your average surplus store."

"So, suggestive of someone in the military, but not conclusive," Gibbs said.

"Could be another coincidence," Abby said.

"Too many of those around lately," Gibbs said. "What else?"

"This." She showed him a small glass evidence jar with several pieces of what looked like melted plastic inside it.

"What is it?" he asked, holding the jar up to look at it against the ceiling lights.

"Parts of a melted water bottle, I think. But that's not what's important. It's what Major Mass Spec found on it that's important."

"And…" Gibbs prompted her.

"Magnesium and ammonium perchlorate."

"Which is what?" he asked.

"Wait for it…" she handed him another jar. This one contained a key ring about the size of a quarter, with a twisted piece of 10 gauge wire and a mostly melted thin metal tag attached to it. Gibbs frowned, then looked up at Abby.

"A grenade pin?" he asked.

"From a stun grenade," Abby confirmed. "The water bottle was probably on the ground near where it went off. The chemical signature left behind on the plastic matches military issue stun grenades."

"So someone set off a flash-bang in that warehouse," Gibbs stated.

"Yup," she nodded.

"Can you trace it?"

Abby shook her head. "Sorry. Not enough left of the ID tag."

"Anything else?"

"That's it for now."

"Thank-you," Gibbs said and turned to go. Abby called after him.

"Seriously, Gibbs, call the evidence vault. I don't want any more unexpected visitors."

Gibbs waved at her over his shoulder as he started upstairs. He would do it, of course. He rarely denied her anything she asked. Just like his Kelly.

"McGee, you get those new reports?" Gibbs asked as he rounded the corner away from the back elevators on the third floor.

"On your desk, boss," McGee said. "All the medical reports I've been able to get are with Ducky. I'm still working on accessing Major Ortiz's complete record. The evidence for the two new cases is being located and should be here by the end of the day."

"What about Brisbin, the victim in the other live case?" Gibbs asked as he dropped his coat on the small cabinet behind his desk and stowed his gun.

"He was discharged from the Navy in July 2007, six months after being attacked in Spain. His veteran's disability checks are being mailed to an address in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. I haven't been able to find him yet."

"Keep trying," Gibbs said. As one of those who'd been found with the 'One Less' note in their pockets, and as the only other victim on which the statute of limitations hadn't run, they'd need him. "Ziva."

"Culinary Specialist Second Class Leroy Demmings of the USS Mesa Verde is standing by in MTAC, waiting on you."

Gibbs hadn't been expecting that. He'd asked her to find the sailor less than an hour ago. Gibbs looked at her a moment – letting a small expression of approval show – then sat down and pawed through the paperwork on his desk until he found the slim case file on the sailor who'd escaped his attackers. He flipped it open to the investigation summary sheet, slipped on his glasses, and quickly read the pertinent details.

Satisfied he had enough to engage in a useful conversation with Demmings, Gibbs stood and headed for the stairs.

"Come on," he said to his team as he went. They'd both been virtually twitching with the desire to sit in on the interview, but neither one had moved. At his invitation, they both hopped to.

* * *

to be continued...

If you didn't read the note at the top, I hope you will now. Oh, and comments and reviews are always welcome. :o)


	15. Part 14

**One Less - Part 14**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs leaned into the iris scanner that held the door to the Multiple Threat Alert Center, its blue laser-like light stabbing into his head and making him cringe. On days like this, he would gladly pay money not to have to subject his optic nerves to the scanner. But neither McGee nor David had the unlimited access to MTAC that he had as senior agent. The door buzzed and he stepped through into the dim light.

MTAC was a round-the-clock operation where agents and techs monitored international communications to produce indications and warnings of potential criminal and terrorist threats that could affect Naval operations. The center's ability to host teleconferences between parties in up to six different locations made it useful for mundane tasks as well as high-profile ones. As Gibbs descended the ramp that led to the 'stage' area in front of the 10-foot-high by 15-foot-wide main screen, he scanned the room. There didn't appear to be much going on right now.

The main screen at the front of the room was divided into four views: the largest view took up three-quarters of the screen to the right, and three smaller views were stacked in a column along the left side. As needed, each of the views could be tuned to a different source. At the moment, all four views were showing color bars. Along the left wall of the room was a bank of three computer stations, each with a 42-inch plasma mounted to the wall above it. Those, too, could be used for teleconferencing or to display other visuals as needed. A tech sat at each computer, monitoring the worldwide activities of NCIS. The tech at the rear-most computer noticed Gibbs come in and stood, moving out of the way.

"Your conference is set up here, Special Agent Gibbs," the tech said. "Whenever you're ready." He held out a wireless headset with lip mike. Gibbs took it and tucked the file folder under his arm to put the headset in place. At Gibbs' motion, McGee took a seat in the chair the tech had vacated and checked the settings. Ziva stood off to the side, out of the camera's range but close enough to see and hear what was going on. McGee put on his own headset, the mike arm pushed up out of the way next to his head. He picked a third set off a nearby shelf and turned in his chair to hold it back to Ziva. All three of them would be able to listen in on the interview without anyone else in the room hearing, but only Gibbs' voice would be heard by the sailor on the other end.

The plasma above the McGee's head – and the computer screen in front of him – showed a young black man in Navy work blues sitting at a long, narrow table, reading a novel of some kind. The quality of the shot wasn't great. It was streaked with static and poorly lit and quite typical for at-sea communications. Nonetheless, it clearly showed that he was in the Mesa Verde's conference room, and that he was alone. He was smaller than the average sailor, maybe 5'6 and 120 lbs, and appeared to be somewhere between 25 and 30 years old. That would be right, Gibbs thought, for a PO2 half way through his second enlistment. As Gibbs slipped on the headset and approached the screen, the kid turned a page, glancing up at his video screen as he did. He realized there was someone in the MTAC camera's range and jumped to his feet, standing at attention. The abandoned book flipped closed on the table.

"Culinary Specialist Second Class Demmings, sir," the kid said and snapped off a salute. The sound was good, making up for the poor visuals.

"At ease, Petty Officer," Gibbs said into his microphone, which he was still in the process of adjusting. The kid took a parade rest stance, hands behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, head up, eyes at middle distance. Not easy to do when looking at a video screen.

"Have a seat, sailor. This isn't a formal meeting." The kid focused on Gibbs' image on his screen, looking uncertain. Gibbs tried to reassure. "Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. I just need to ask you some questions about your assault."

Demmings slowly sat in the chair he'd jumped out of and folded his hands on the table in front of himself.

"Why now, sir?" the kid asked. "It's been more than three years. The statute of limitations has run."

Gibbs was surprised that the kid knew that. "We believe your assault may have some connection to a recent homicide here in DC. I'm hoping you can help us out," Gibbs said.

"Sure, if I can," he said. The kid seemed suddenly tense, and Gibbs had no trouble imaging why. Nicky had reported the men who attacked Ferrara had been calling Ferrara every foul, evil name in the homophobe's dictionary. If they'd done likewise with this kid, he had to know what their motive had been, and had to be wondering if and when someone was going to figure it out and throw him out of the Navy.

"Who died?" Demmings asked before Gibbs could get his first question out.

"A Yeoman Third from the Roosevelt named Frank Ferrara," Gibbs said. Demmings nodded.

"The guy who lost his foot in the deck accident."

"You knew him?" Gibbs asked.

"Casually. We sometimes worked out together. Before his accident."

"You have any thoughts on why someone would want to kill him?"

"No sir. He was an okay guy. Quiet, kept to himself. I didn't know he'd made it back to duty. What happened to him?"

"He was on liberty. Someone beat him to death."

Demmings said nothing for a long breath. Then: "That sucks."

"Agreed," Gibbs said. "He was on his way back to ship. I understand that was also what happened to you?"

"Yes sir. Couple of guys tried to mug me, but I managed to escape. Broke my arm pretty good, but it could have been worse."

"How many were there?"

"Two," Demmings said.

"Tell me exactly what happened," Gibbs said.

"It was a long time ago," Demmings said, and again, Gibbs sensed his nervousness. God, this case was a nightmare.

"It's alright, sailor. Tell me what you can," Gibbs said, and hoped his message was getting through: he needed the facts, not the wicked details.

"I was walking back to the ship. I'd been drinking. I wasn't drunk, I had early watch the next morning, but I was some under the influence. I thought I heard someone following me, but I wasn't sure. I mean, it wasn't exactly my town, you know? I thought…"

There was the sound of alert tones in the background: five short dings, a pause, then repeated. Demmings stood up.

"Might want to cover your ears, sir. Twenty seconds to impact." Demmings moved to the side of the room and braced his back and head flat against the wall, knees slightly bent. He pressed the heels of his hands to his ears. Gibbs just had time to say "mute it" to McGee – who instantly complied – before the picture jumped, shook, snowed out momentarily, then returned and stabilized.

"What was that?" McGee asked. He turned to look over his shoulder at Gibbs.

"Shock trials." Gibbs said. When McGee looked confused, he elaborated. "It's a new ship, and they're bombing it."

"What? Why?" McGee asked, startled.

"To see if it'll sink," Gibbs said with a hidden smile. When McGee's look didn't abate, he rolled his eyes a little and went on. "They set off depth charges of pre-determined power at specific distances from the hull. It's to see how the ship'll react when it's hit with a concussion blast. Lets them plan for the real thing."

McGee nodded hesitantly, then turned as Gibbs pointed over McGee's shoulder at the screen. McGee turned back to see Demmings was once again seated at the table and looking expectantly at them. McGee raised the volume.

"Thanks for the warning," Gibbs told Demmings.

"It'll happen again in 10 or 15 minutes," Demmings said. "They come in threes. That was the first."

"Fair enough," Gibbs said. "Continue."

"Like I said, I thought someone was following me. I turned just as someone hit me on the side of the head with some kind of pipe. There was an explosion in my head, like the Fourth of July. It knocked me down, but not out. Someone kicked me in the gut. Knocked the wind out of me. I tried to get up, but then someone landed on my back and pinned me down. The other guy started whaling on my arm with the pipe. I fought them, hard as I could. Guy with the pipe got me a couple more times before I got away."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. There was something there. He rewound the conversation.

"Why did you turn?"

"Sir?" Demmings asked.

"You said you turned around just as the guy went to hit you. Why'd you turn?"

Demmings hesitated. "I must have heard something."

"From where?"

"Behind me. That's where the guy came from. He must have made some noise. Or something."

"How'd you get away?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know. I guess I fought hard enough."

That didn't wash. The guy in front of him was Ziva's size, and as a culinary specialist – the Navy's fancy title for a cook – he wouldn't have had a fraction of her training. No way he'd have been able to overpower two assailants with a badly broken arm. The kid was holding something back.

"Were you armed?" Gibbs guessed. Carrying a weapon while out of uniform on foreign soil was definitely against regs.

"No sir," Demmings said immediately. Truth.

"Was someone with you?" Second guess, and a score. The kid hesitated, shifting in his seat.

"No," he said. A lie.

"Who were you with, Petty Officer?" Gibbs asked, his voice hardening slightly. Demmings was a victim, but he was hiding something, and Gibbs needed to know what it was.

"No one," Demmings said. He looked down at his hands.

"Was it a local? Or someone you knew?" Gibbs asked.

"Read the report, sir. I was alone," he insisted.

"Your friend heard them coming, or saw them, warned you, told you to look out. That's why you turned. That's why they missed knocking you unconscious." Gibbs was pushing now.

"That's not what the report says, sir," Demmings said.

"But it is the truth," Gibbs said firmly, just a hint of command showing. "Your friend ran at first, or wasn't right there with you, but he was there in time to help you get away. Did you injure any of them?"

"I don't think I did," Demmings said. He could admit that without admitting the lie.

Gibbs turned slightly away from the camera and held the folder containing Demmings' crime report to Ziva. He fisted the mike, effectively blocking his voice.

"Was there DNA?" he asked. Ziva took the folder and started rapidly scanning the contents.

"Was your friend injured?" Gibbs asked, turning back to face the screen.

"No. I mean, there wasn't…" Demmings stuttered to a stop. Gibbs put on his best paternal expression and took out the voice he used with crime victims and frightened children.

"Son, I know what you were doing that night. And I don't care. The same people who attacked you have done it to at least 11 other sailors just like you. And this weekend, they killed one of them. You're the only one they let get away without a career-ending injury. I need to know what you know. And I need to know what your friend knows."

Demmings was shaking his head. "Sir, I can't."

Gibbs sighed. Behind him, Ziva spoke softly. "He had a significant amount of blood on his clothing that was not his. The source was uniform, but unidentified." Gibbs nodded in acknowledgment.

"Why did you request transfer off the Roosevelt?" Gibbs asked. He'd read on the kid's SRB that he'd requested and received assignment to a different command when he was reinstated. He'd spent almost two years at Naval Air Station Miramar before being promoted to his current rank and transferring to the Mesa Verde two months ago.

Demmings frowned. "Sir?"

"Answer the question," Gibbs said flatly.

"I needed a change," Demmings said with a shrug. "Wanted to stay stateside for awhile."

"You know who they were, don't you?" Gibbs asked.

"No, sir."

"But you knew they were from your ship," he said.

This time, it was Demmings who sighed. "They could have been. They wore desert camos. They spoke English."

"You told the locals and the investigating agent that you didn't remember what they said to you. You do remember, don't you?" Hesitation, then Demmings seemed to shrink a little in his seat.

"Yes sir," he said finally.

"You'd heard it before?"

"Yes sir."

"From them?"

"I don't know who they were."

"From sailors on your ship?"

"Sometimes."

"And your friend. He'd heard it too?"

Nothing. The kid did not want to give it up.

"You don't know who they were?" Gibbs tried again.

"No sir. I swear. I didn't get a good look at any of them. It all happened very fast."

Gibbs believed that. Which left them nowhere. "Your friend see them?" Gibbs asked. Again, Demmings said nothing. Gibbs stared at him through the miles, letting the silence build. It usually worked. This time, while Demmings clearly grew uncomfortable, he made no move to fill up the void. Gibbs tried something else.

"You like your billet?"

"Sir?" Demmings asked, thrown off by the out-of-left-field question.

"Do you like it aboard the Mesa Verde? Brand new ship, brand new crew?"

"Yes sir, very much," Demmings said. Suspicion had appeared, right where Gibbs wanted it to be.

"Alright, Petty Officer. This is what we're going to do." Gibbs let his voice harden a little. "I'm going to contact your Captain, tell him I'm pulling the plug on his shock trials, ordering his ship to the nearest port so you can be flown to Washington as part of an active NCIS investigation. He's going to be pissed at the interruption, and he's going to want to know what we're investigating, and I'm going to tell him you're an uncooperative material witness in a homicide. How long do you think your stay on the Mesa Verde will last when he finds out his trials were extended by a couple day's sail because you won't tell me what I want to know?"

"But sir, you don't understand!" Demmings said plaintively.

"I do understand," Gibbs said firmly, then softened again. "I know what you're afraid of. I'm not going to say it on this channel, but I know." He paused a moment to let that sink in. "This is not about you. It's about a group of US Navy personnel who are on a crusade to destroy the lives and careers of good men. So far, you're the only one lucky enough to walk away. I need your help if I'm gonna stop them from doing it again."

He paused again, gathering thoughts. Time for the big finish. "Between your assault and Petty Officer Ferrara's murder, they hit three others. One of them was intentionally deafened. One of them's paralyzed. One of them – a decorated corpsman with 18 years of service – probably wishes he was paralyzed so he didn't have to feel the constant pain from the torture he suffered at their hands. You going to be alright with seeing things like that happen to more sailors when you could have helped stop it?"

Demmings said nothing, but he was clearly fighting a fierce battle with himself. Gibbs let him. It was in his hands now.

On screen, the alert tones sounded again. Mechanically, Demmings stood and returned to his place against the wall. McGee cut the sound. Again the shake, the roll, the snow. It lasted longer this time and when it cleared, Demmings was still standing against the wall, hands at his sides.

"He was a couple hundred yards back, on the other side of the street. That's why I turned. I thought the feeling I had of being followed might be him. Then the pipe upside my head, a burst of light and sound. I went down. One of them was holding me down, the other one holding my arm out and hitting it with the pipe. They were too busy beating on me to see him coming, then he was all fists and feet. I don't think they got a good look at him. They probably think he was just a good Samaritan. They ran off pretty quick when they realized he could fight."

Demmings took a breath. "He's still in the Navy. If they find out he was with me…"

"We'll protect him," Gibbs swore.

"If you interview him, like this, he'll deny it."

"We have other ways," Gibbs said.

"He's an officer," Demmings said.

"It doesn't matter. I'm not looking to ruin careers." It was what he'd told Goetz five years ago, right before the Master Chief told him the real reason for his secrecy. Demmings bit the inside of his mouth.

"The blood on my clothes was his," Demmings said after another few moments, the comment coming out of nowhere. "He had one of them around the chest and caught an elbow in the face. His nose bled, bad."

"Alright," Gibbs said.

"He did some damage to one of them. Kicked him in the side of the head. Knocked him out. That's how I got away. His buddy was dragging him out of the line of fire after Adrian kicked him. There might be medical reports."

"We'll look."

One more pause, as if Demmings was hanging on to this last piece of information with everything he had. Then, "Adrian Holbrook. Lieutenant JG. He's probably a Lieutenant by now. Might not even be on TR anymore."

"You don't know?" Gibbs asked.

"We… I never talked to him after that night."

"Not at all?" Gibbs was surprised.

"No sir," Demmings said. Then: "Don't hurt him, please?"

"We won't," Gibbs said. "You have my word."

Demmings nodded.

"Could it have been a flash-bang grenade? The light and noise in your head that night?" Gibbs asked. McGee glanced back over his shoulder at Gibbs, curiosity clear.

"Could have been," Demmings agreed. He thought for a moment, then nodded. "Probably was, now that you mention it. It all sort of ran together, the light, the noise, the impact. But yeah, it could have been."

"And you're sure you don't have any idea who it might have been?" Gibbs said.

"No sir. On my mother's life, I swear it."

"Alright, Petty Officer. You think of anything else, you contact me directly at NCIS headquarters. No one else. You're dismissed."

"Thank you, sir." He pushed away from the wall, snatched his book off the table, and practically ran out of the room. McGee hit a button and the screen went to color bars.

Gibbs pulled off the headset and handed it back to the tech, who had stepped up when the screen went blank. Ziva did likewise and McGee surrendered the chair.

"Flash bangs, Boss?" McGee asked.

"Abby found indications of a flash-bang in the warehouse. Nicky said he heard a loud bang before the fighting."

"So that's how they're disabling their victims?" McGee said.

"Maybe. Ziva, pull TR's medical records for the night of Demmings' assault, and the next three days," Gibbs said.

"To see if anyone sought treatment for a head injury, or other injuries from a fight," Ziva said.

"McGee. There's got to be a point of common contact for these victims. Somehow someone is discovering their secrets. Find it."

"Got it," McGee said.

"And find out how easy it would be to get military flash-bangs. See if you can buy them on eBay."

With a half grin, McGee nodded. The two of them hurried out.

Alone but for the techs, Gibbs sat in one of the gallery seats and leaned forward, trying to massage the pain out of his temples. This case was like walking a mine field in the dark. And Gibbs had no map.

* * *

After finding the mess and returning to the NCIS office aboard the Roosevelt, DiNozzo spent the rest of the morning reading reports. To maintain his supposed purpose, he started a list of crimes reported to the Master at Arms, the Shore Patrol, or directly to the NCIS officer, noting the date and time, the nature of the crime, initial steps taken to solve it, and its resolution. Most of the reports were of the single-page variety. Something went missing, someone got into a fight, some contraband was found with or without owner. The usual petty stuff that filled up every law enforcement officer's routine. DiNozzo had been there before.

The Navy really was a microcosm of the rest of America. There were the same petty thefts, the same petty arguments that got out of control, the same number of people who totally lost it and did something really stupid in the heat of the moment. It could be counted on that there'd be about the same number of bad guys per hundred on a Navy ship as there were in any similarly-sized city in the country. It was why he had a job. While it was true that the Navy tended to attract those with higher-than-average patriotism, it also attracted those with higher-than-average levels of testosterone. A potentially explosive combination when a ship was in foreign ports. Also, the Navy attracted more than its share of those who had a good reason to get out of town for a few years. The Navy and the Air Force tended to be where people went when they wanted to run away with the military, but didn't want to get killed.

The Roosevelt had been docked in Norfolk more than three months, and two-thirds of its crew didn't live on board. Which meant most of the reports Fredrick had written were of the infraction or misdemeanor variety. The most significant crime DiNozzo had found so far was a sailor who'd come back two hours post-curfew, fall-down drunk after breaking up with his long-time girlfriend, and decided to trash the enlisted recreation room in the middle of the night. He'd faced Captain's mast, and was still on restriction and extra duties. Based on the damage report, he probably would be for the entire crossing of the Atlantic.

After more than an hour of this, DiNozzo's only conclusion was that there'd been very little actual violence involving ship's crew in the past four months, and even less involving civilians. It seemed like when the ship was in home port – and within the immediate reach of both Navy and Virginia State justice – everyone tried their best to behave themselves.

Fredrick had spent the morning sitting at his desk across the small room, pretending to work on a laptop, and pretending not to watch what DiNozzo was doing. It was a skill, DiNozzo knew. He was a near master at it himself after so many years working with Gibbs. There'd been little conversation between the men, just an uncomfortable silence broken only by turning pages, squeaking chairs, and a small radio Fredrick had hung from an upper shelf. It had been playing smooth jazz at a just-barely-there level, not a bad choice, as far as DiNozzo was concerned.

"What are you really doing here?" Fredrick said suddenly, just before lunch time. He turned in his chair to face DiNozzo. Tony mentally paid off the bet he'd had with himself about how long it would take Fredrick to ask the question.

"Making the boss happy," DiNozzo said. "The boss is happy, I'm happy."

"So your boss told you to come read my reports?" Fredrick said.

"To look into your reporting practices," DiNozzo clarified, and shrugged. "I go where I'm told." He flipped the file he was reading closed and reached for another.

"What are you looking for?" Fredrick asked.

"Irregularities," DiNozzo said. He opened the new folder and started to read.

"What does that mean?" Fredrick asked.

"Hell if I know," DiNozzo said. He looked up and grinned at Fredrick. "I go where I'm told."

Silence returned for several minutes before DiNozzo started the conversation again. "This stuff if all pretty minor. You get much real crime when the carrier group is underway?"

"Why?" Fredrick asked.

Again, Tony shrugged. "Must get boring, dealing with this crap day after day."

Fredrick considered him for a moment, then nodded. "It can. You ever been afloat?"

"Nope," DiNozzo said, remembering his cover. "I've spent most of my time stateside."

"Where at?" Fredrick asked.

Abby had made Anthony DiNardo an analyst from day one. She was a firm believer in the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

"The Navy Yard, mostly. Working MTAC, lately."

"So you're an 0132?" he asked, using the Federal Government job series number by which analysts were commonly known.

"Yup. Used to work contraband, drugs mostly, some weapons. But about a year ago, I was assigned to case analysis."

"Who'd you piss off?" Fredrick asked with a smile.

"Let's just say I had no idea she was the CNO's niece and leave it at that," DiNozzo grinned and Fredrick chuckled.

"So how 'bout you? You been afloat long?" DiNozzo asked.

"Assigned here right out of FLETC. It'll be ten years in the fall."

"You really like it that much?" DiNozzo asked, raising his eyes.

"It's why I joined up. Did a stint in the Navy aboard a carrier."

"Oh yeah? This one?" DiNozzo asked.

"No. The Enterprise."

"Ah, the Big E," Tony said.

"You know it?"

"Toured it once during Fleet Week," he said. "How come you didn't stay in the Navy?"

"Didn't like people looking over my shoulder," Fredrick said. "Didn't like being Government Issue."

"So you went to work for NCIS?" Tony said with surprise.

Fredrick smiled. "I worked Norfolk PD while I finished college. The feds pay better."

"Hm," Tony said, and moved on to the next file.

"So how come you're here? In NCIS, I mean," Fredrick qualified.

"Seemed like the thing to do at the time. Graduated from college, didn't want to work in the corporate world or for the local police. NCIS was hiring." Tony shrugged. "And the rest, as they say, is history."

It was a shaky start to a friendship, but it was a start. They chatted about light topics until the lunch bell sounded, then sat across from each other in the mess. Fredrick really did enjoy being the Sheriff of a city of 5,500: he carried a aura of pride in his work that was easy to see. By the time lunch was done and Tony had accepted Fredrick's offer to join him for his afternoon workout in the hangar bay, DiNozzo was leaning toward believing Fredrick had nothing to do with the attacks on gay sailors. He seemed open – after the ice broke, anyway – honest, and dedicated to the job. Of course, they hadn't gotten to the topic of sexual orientation yet. DiNozzo was playing his role as Gibbs had instructed: aggressively straight. He gave long appreciative looks at every female sailor he passed, and made light comments to Fredrick about several who caught his attention. Nothing that would be considered over the line, but clearly enough to show he was attracted. Fredrick nodded or smiled, but said nothing more. After all, he had to live here.

DiNozzo was redressing in the locker room after his shower when his agency cell rang. He snatched it out of his pants pocket. "DiNardo."

"Can you talk?" Gibbs said. DiNozzo looked over at where Fredrick was just coming out of the shower.

"Well, I don't know sweetheart, I'm kind of working. Can I call you right back?"

"Right back, DiNozzo," Gibbs said and hung up.

"That was my girlfriend. I'll catch up with you later," he told Fredrick. He quickly finished dressing, then hustled out of the locker room, up the stairs and onto the deck. It was cold outside, a strong wind blowing, moisture being kicked off the water. DiNozzo shivered at the sudden change from warmth to cold. He quickly dialed Gibbs' cell.

"Sorry about that, Boss," DiNozzo said. "I was with Fredrick."

"Anything yet?"

"He's a nice guy. Seems upstanding. We haven't gotten to the issue yet."

"Keep at it. There's a sailor I need you to interview. Lt. Adrian Holbrook, he's a Flight Officer." Tony patted his pockets. He had nothing to write with. Or on.

"Um, can you get McGee to email me the details? I don't have anything to write with," he said. He was under some shelter, but the wind still tossed his damp hair around and made a whistling sound against the phone. He turned toward the wall to shield it.

"Why not?" Gibbs asked.

"I was working out. Gotta keep up the image, you know?"

There was nothing for a second, and DiNozzo frowned, listening to the wind blow and scanning back for why that might have been an unacceptable answer in Gibbs' mind.

"There was another victim, only this one got away. Broken arm, surgically repaired, didn't have to retire. He was with Holbrook the night it happened."

"With him?" DiNozzo asked, his tone implying the question.

"Yes. They both hid it. Victim – CS2 Demmings – transferred off the Big Stick after his recovery. Holbrook is still there. Get him someplace private and find out what he saw. Do it gently. He'll deny being there."

"Got it, Boss."

"I'll have McGee send you the info. And DiNozzo?" Gibbs added.

"Yeah Boss?"

"Try the pilots ready room, or the chapel. Private. Quiet. Warm."

"Got it." Gibbs hung up and DiNozzo snapped his phone shut.

* * *

to be continued...

Clues, clues, and more clues... reviews and comments (especially constructive criticism) are gladly welcomed, here or at joykatleen AT aol DOT com


	16. Part 15

**One Less - Part 15**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

It took a phone call to Capt. McNally before the Roosevelt's chief physician would give Ziva access to the carrier's medical records. Active duty military personnel were not protected by civilian patient confidentiality laws, but the military equivalent meant they had to show probable cause before the records would be opened. Figuring Gibbs would not want to wait for a military warrant, Ziva tried several other ways to get into the records and was at dead ends until McGee told her McNally had been very cooperative. Twenty minutes later, she had what she needed.

McGee himself wasn't so lucky. He lined up the SRBs on all 12 victims and tried to draw parallels. He found what Goetz had found, and the connections they already knew, but nothing more. The search for flash-bang grenades was a little more illuminating. He was just wrapping it up, covering his bases one more time, when Gibbs appeared in the squad room, fresh cup of coffee in hand.

"Ziva," he said, as he sat at his desk.

"Five men with injuries that might indicate they were in a fight sought medical attention in the ship's infirmary the night of Petty Officer Demmings' assault or in the three days following. Specifically, there was one Marine and one sailor with head injuries. The sailor sustained a witnessed on-duty injury the morning after the attack. The Marine came in later in the day, saying he had hit his head on his rack the night before. He was diagnosed with a concussion. The doctor noted that when he pressed for further details on how the injury occurred, the Marine was evasive."

"Sounds promising. Where is he?" Gibbs asked. It took Ziva a minute find him.

"Private Tadhg O'Sullivan," Ziva said, stumbling over the unfamiliar first name, "…is currently housed at Marine Corps Brig Quantico. According to their files, he was convicted of aggravated assault on a fellow Marine last July. He received a demotion from Corporal to the lowest enlisted rank, forfeiture of pay and allowances, and 12 months confinement. He is scheduled to be dishonorably discharged in June."

"Nature of the assault?" Gibbs asked. This was sounding better by the minute.

"It was a bar fight. O'Sullivan's story was that they were drinking together and got into an argument. He said the victim threw the first punch and when he fought back, the victim fell backwards over a bar stool and hit his head. He fell briefly unconscious. The next morning, O'Sullivan was unable to wake him. The victim had suffered a cerebral bleed, and the delay in treatment resulted in permanent brain damage."

"Does the victim match our profile?" Gibbs asked.

Ziva's eyes widened, and she turned back to her computer. "I will check."

"Anything else?" He asked. Ziva looked back up at him.

"Only that Lt. Junior Grade Holbrook also sought medical treatment several hours after Petty Officer Demmings' return to the ship. He had a broken nose. He told the corpsman that he had slipped while climbing into his rack."

"Lot of that going around. McGee," Gibbs turned to the younger man.

"Flash-bang grenades are Class Three destructive devices, regulated by ATF. Federal rules for purchase on the legal market require an ATF tax stamp, which you can't get without fingerprinting, a background check, and a sign-off from the chief LEO of the locality. They are more strictly regulated in most states in the Northeast, including DC, Virginia and Maryland, where unauthorized possession is a felony."

"On the street?"

"Available, but not widely. Since 9/11, ATF has cracked down on the sale of all classes of destructive devices. But since they don't actually cause any destruction, they're not high on the terrorists' wish list, so ATF doesn't spend a lot of time worrying about them."

"What about on board the Roosevelt? Could they have gotten them there?" Gibbs asked.

McGee nodded, but not enthusiastically. "Possible, but not likely. On average, there are five Navy and three Marine units assigned to the ship that have them in their arsenals. As of last Saturday, only one of each were aboard, preparing for departure this weekend. No thefts have been reported, and none of the units have requisitioned replacements since the ship docked."

"What about reloads?" Gibbs asked.

"Reloads?" McGee said with a frown.

Ziva piped up from her desk. "Flash-bang grenades do not fragment, so the casing is reloadable. The chemical load, the igniter, and the pin come in a kit. If they took it from ship's stores and recovered the casing from the scene, they would need a reload kit to put it back together so it would not be missed." Gibbs nodded approvingly at her.

"I'll look into it," McGee said.

"What else?" Gibbs asked.

"Nothing," McGee said with an internal cringe. Here it comes.

"Nothing?" Gibbs said. Disbelief was clear in his voice.

"I compared every aspect of the victims' SRBs and as much of their personal lives as I could access and didn't find anywhere that all twelve came together. The only point of common contact is the Roosevelt itself. There's no project, duty station, assignment, club or recreation team they all had in common, even considering the passing time. I looked at the banks they use, the places they like to shop, their family's churches and schools, everything. There are commonalities, but nothing that matches across all twelve.

"The closest I got was that nine of them use the Navy credit union in Norfolk, and six of them worked on the Toys for Tots drive, in three different non-consecutive years. The only commonalities are the ones we've already found."

"Look harder. There's got to be something."

Ziva spoke again. "The victim who was injured in the fight with Corporal O'Sullivan does not appear to fit our victim profile. Witnesses at the bar said the two men had been drinking together for some time before the incident. They began arguing, and it quickly got physical. Apparently, the fight was over a woman they'd been talking to most of the evening. They had both consumed a significant amount of alcohol."

"Naturally," Gibbs said. Marines. He took a breath. "Ziva, take a look at the victim files. A new set of eyes might help. McGee, stay on the flash bangs."

The agents went back to their work. Gibbs called Quantico to set up an interview with O'Sullivan. The Watch Commander suggested that in light of the approaching storm, it might be better to wait until morning. Gibbs looked out the windows that dominated the long wall of the squadroom, then glanced at his watch. Barely four o'clock and it was nearly dark outside. The snow had started in earnest, the wind blowing it in gusts against the glass. He could barely make out the lights on the buildings on the opposite side of the Anacostia River. It was going to be a bad storm and Gibbs took a second to wonder if Nicky would be alright in his warehouse. Refocusing on the conversation, Gibbs agreed that the interview could wait and arranged for the Marine to be brought to D.C. in the morning.

"You two take what you can work on and go home."

McGee and David exchanged looks. This was certainly odd.

"Boss?" McGee said.

"The storm is coming in. With DiNozzo out of town, I can't afford for either of you to end up in a wreck. Go home."

Leaving them gathering their gear, Gibbs went down to Abby's lab to give her the same message. He found the forensics tech studying something on the large monitor at her center console and taking notes on paper. It was a page of text, nothing fancy, like from a letter or a book. Her music was subdued, appropriate for a stormy afternoon.

"What'da you got?" he asked from right behind her shoulder, making her jump a little. She'd been deep in thought.

"Geez, Gibbs, make some noise, would you?" she replied with exasperation, then answered his question. "It's a journal."

"Like a diary?" Gibbs asked. The text was small enough that he had to squint to make out the letters, though Abby seemed to be having no trouble.

"Yeah. Only men don't write in diaries, they keep journals. It's Petty Officer Ferrara's."

"Where'd you find it?" Gibbs asked.

"On a flash drive he was keeping in his prosthetic."

"At the bottom of the socket in a small cutout space covered with cotton," Gibbs said.

"Yes," she said, surprised. "You knew?"

"Saw the space for it on the running leg. What else was on it?"

"There's some letters to friends and family, something that's probably a story he was writing in his spare time. The biggest file is called 'journal.' That's how I know what it is, but I can't read it. It's encrypted. Looks like Greeking."

"Greeking?" Gibbs asked.

"It's what typesetters use to fill the space when they lay out a dummy page. Random blocks of words to show what the page will look like when you put in the real text. But I think this is actually a word substitution code. Look." She hit a few keys and the computer focused on a small paragraph, bringing it into larger focus in the middle of the screen.

"So combine center friend grape standard so suppressed house testing center orders so license fire cruising small," Abby read aloud.

Gibbs stared at the screen, then at her.

"And that means something?"

"Oh yes, without a doubt. I think he's using one word to replace another. For example, in that sentence, 'so' is in there three times. It's probably a conjunction, or a pronoun. One of the small words we use all the time. It's like when you were a kid, using a simple letter substitution code where A means F or something like that. If you have the key, you can break the code. But without it, it's much harder, if not impossible."

"But you can break it, right?" Gibbs said.

"Eventually, probably," Abby said with a shrug. "The file doesn't ask for a password, and there's no obvious way to get it to translate the text. It might even be an English vocabulary-based language that he created himself. In which case, it'll mean we'll need to learn the language before we can read it."

"Can't the computer translate it?" Gibbs asked. He sipped at his coffee. It wasn't as good as what he got from his dealer down the street, but it would do in a pinch.

"Not this one, not without a frame of reference, a guide to the structure of the language. If the guy really did create his own language, he might have been working with it for years, and the translation key might not even exist anymore, except in his own mind. Of course, if we had access to the CIA mainframe…"

"Not yet," Gibbs said quickly and with an internal flinch. He'd authorized McGee to do that, break into the CIA, awhile back when it was critical that they get some information from the spooks that couldn't be found anywhere else. But he'd paid for it. Big time. And it wasn't something he was ready to venture into again so soon. At least not unless they had to.

"With what I've got down here, if it is an original language, it could take weeks. Unless I get lucky."

"When has that happened lately," Gibbs grumbled, and he shook his head. "The storm's coming in. You should head home."

Abby moved over to look out the windows of her lab. They were high in the wall, at ground-level outside. She could see the darkness, and the snow being blown against the windows outside. A pair of uniform-clad legs went rushing by.

"Okay. I'll take a copy of the drive with me. Oh, and I pulled the deck officer's logs for the nights with common DNA signatures. Thought it might help."

Gibbs looked at her. "How?" he asked. She looked at him strangely. He wasn't usually slow on things like this.

"The logs'll show who was off ship the nights of the attacks. If they show someone was ashore both nights when common DNA was found, it'll at least give you somewhere to start."

"Just about everyone who's not on duty goes ashore when the ship is in port," he said. "There's going to be a lot of commonality."

"True. But it might at least narrow it a bit, right?" She looked hopeful, and a little uncertain.

Gibbs sighed. "Yes, it might. That's good thinking, Abs. Send it to McGee to work on." He leaned in to kiss her cheek.

"You should get some sleep," she said when he straightened. "You're not yourself."

"I know. You need a ride?" he asked. Gibbs knew she often took public transit to work from her home in Alexandria.

"No thanks. I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner. We'll probably cancel, but he'll take me home."

"Be careful," he said, and headed out, dumping his now-empty coffee cup in the trash as he passed it. That was a pretty obvious move, pulling the logs. He was a little embarrassed that he'd not only failed to think of it himself, but hadn't even seen the potential in it when Abby brought it up. He must be more tired that he thought. And the pressure in his head, which was rapidly approaching his tolerance threshold for untreated pain, certainly wasn't helping any.

Gibbs descended one more floor to the second basement, where he found Ducky also working at his computer.

"I was just about to call you," Ducky said when he saw Gibbs swish through the doors. "I have the summation of the medical reports on our victims."

"Did you get the information on the two new ones?"

"Indeed I did. More of the same, except for Petty Officer Demmings, who was fortunate enough to come out of his encounter with our suspects relatively whole." He rolled his stool over to the printer and pulled off a sheaf of half a dozen pages. He stapled it together and presented it to Gibbs.

"Sum it up for me?" Gibbs asked after he patted his pocket and realized his glasses were still up on his desk.

"The goal behind the attacks becomes very clear when they are placed side by side," Ducky began. "There is no doubt they were intended to end careers but not destroy lives. With several notable exceptions."

"Ferrara," Gibbs said. "And Hutchinson."

"And Major Ortiz. Though I believe there might have been something else going on there."

"Master Chief Goetz said the same thing. He thought that one was personal." Gibbs pulled up a chair and sat.

"That's certainly one interpretation. I received his records from time of injury through his discharge from the Navy. Upon reviewing them, I have come to a different conclusion."

"Which is?" Gibbs asked.

"I believe he was attacked at least twice, by two separate individuals or groups. On close examination of the report of his injuries, it appears the initial attack, occurring the night he went missing, was similar to the others, if a little more severe. He suffered a head injury, fractures to his legs, and multiple blunt-force traumas. Then, between 24 and 48 hours later, he was attacked again. That was the when the rape and the brain trauma occurred."

"How do you know that?" Gibbs asked.

"Because, Jethro, I am as good at what I do as you are at what you do." Ducky smiled pleasantly at him, and Gibbs conceded the point. Ducky went on.

"The healing of his physical injuries progressed along two discernable timelines. Also, the x-rays of his skull show one fracture crossing over another. It's like glass broken twice. The first, less serious, fracture showed minute signs of healing before the second was inflicted."

"So he was beaten then wandered around in Dubai for a day or more before he was beaten again?" Gibbs was skeptical.

"Or, he was held captive by someone and beaten more than once over the course of several days. The report does say he was found five days after he went missing," Ducky reminded him.

"So is it part of our series or not?" Gibbs asked.

"I believe initially it was," the medical examiner confirmed. "My theory is that our suspects attacked him, did their damage, then left him like they left the others. But he didn't regain consciousness immediately. Then, either someone else found him and held him for several days, committing additional assaults on him, or he awoke confused and disoriented and sought help in the wrong place. Either way, his injuries were compounded after the initial attack was concluded. After they left him."

"Dubai wasn't exactly Pro-American at the time. Might have just been because he was alone and not Arabic," Gibbs mused.

"Exactly," Ducky confirmed. "Still, he wouldn't have been in such a position had not the first attack disabled him to whatever extent it did. So, you can still make a case that they were responsible for the entire outcome."

"I thought case building was what I did, Duck," Gibbs said.

"Forgive me," Dr. Mallard said with a smile. "As for Lt. Hutchinson and Petty Officer Ferrara: If this is a conspiracy, as Abby told me she has discovered, with one or a few individuals at the top pulling the strings, and a group of Marines or sailors at the bottom doing the dirty work, then perhaps what happened to the Lieutenant and Petty Officer Ferrara was a break down of discipline."

"Meaning?" Gibbs asked. There was something there, but with his head pounding like it was, and the information Ducky had just given him bouncing through his thought process, he wasn't getting it.

"We can assume the head of this conspiracy is a true believer. A zealot. He wants homosexuals removed from the Navy. He has no particular problem with them in society, which is why he's not having them killed outright. He just doesn't want them in the service." Ducky paused. Gibbs nodded.

"But the people he's having do his work might not be so disciplined. Maybe some of them are more homophobic than others. Maybe the ones who participated in those two attacks got carried away. Is there any indication the people involved in Lt. Hutchinson's case repeated?"

Gibbs' mind scanned back to the lesson Abby had given him on the DNA samples.

"I don't think there was any DNA recovered from Hutchinson's assault."

"Well, it could explain why the severity of the injuries is so inconsistent. If those committing these crimes are constantly changing, then the level of force might as well."

Gibbs nodded again.

"Were you able to find Major Ortiz's remains?" Gibbs asked. He'd called the medical examiner earlier in the day, explaining what he wanted. Ducky had been as livid as Gibbs was over the disrespectful treatment the Marine had received.

"I was. Master Chief Goetz was correct: Shortly after his death, the Major's body was signed over to AFIP here in D.C. for autopsy and educational study. There, he was shown significantly more care in death than he'd received in the last year of his life. When they had learned all they could from him, the record was sealed at the request of the Department of Defense and the family was contacted and asked for their wishes on final disposition. They showed no interest in services or burial. Per protocol, the body was cremated and the ashes put into storage. They are scheduled to be disposed of after July 1, 2012 if no one comes forward to claim them. I took the liberty of beginning the process of having the remains transferred to our custody."

"You can do that?" Gibbs asked.

"When it comes to the deceased, I can do almost anything. Surely you know that by now," Ducky said with a touch of a grin.

Gibbs smiled in return. "Thank you, Ducky." He stood and stumbled a little, grabbing for the desk top as his vision grayed over.

"Jethro! Are you alright?" The older man had a hand on his arm, stabilizing him. Gibbs blinked hard and felt the pain in his head suddenly settle into a spot between his eyes.

"Yeah, fine," Gibbs said. He gently pulled loose of Ducky's hold and rubbed the back of his neck. "Headache."

"How long have you had it?" Ducky asked.

"It's been building all day. But I'm fine." He took a step away. He would be fine. Mind over matter.

"Have you taken anything for it?" Ducky asked. He pulled open his desk drawer and took out a bottle of white tablets, not needing to wait for Gibbs' negative response. "You really need to take better care of yourself. Coffee and adrenalin can only carry you so far."

"Too much of one, not enough of the other," Gibbs said. Ducky shook two pills out of the bottle and held them out to Gibbs, who took them and held them in his hand.

"Take them," Ducky said. He held out the bottle. "And if it's not better in two hours, take two more."

"Yeah, alright," Gibbs acquiesced. "You should go home. The storm's coming in."

"I had planned to leave just as soon as I delivered that report," Ducky said, indicating the pages Gibbs held in his left hand. "And now I have. Does Abigail need a ride?"

"She's covered. Thanks for the insight. And for Major Ortiz." He started away.

"Take the medicine, Jethro," Ducky called after him. Gibbs waved back at him with the report.

* * *

Gibbs woke suddenly from a fragmented dream. It was Iraq again, but the scenes were incomplete, broken by images of Shannon and Kelly and their lives together, of critical events he'd barely survived in the service and since, of friends who hadn't survived at all. He jumped to his feet, looking around to orient himself. His desk. The squadroom. His cell phone ringing in his pocket. It all came back to him: He'd taken the pills Ducky had given him, then – not at all sure he should face driving in the storm in his condition – he'd laid his head on the desk to wait for the pills to kick in. He'd obviously fallen asleep. The cell was still ringing. It must have been what woke him. He yanked it out, holding it at arm's length to read the caller ID. A Washington number he didn't recognize.

"Gibbs," he answered.

"Gunny! They came back!"

"Nicky?" Gibbs confirmed. "Who?"

"The Marines! They came back. They were looking for me. I got away." Nicky was out of breath, clearly agitated.

"Where are you?"

"At the Metro Station, near the deaf college," Nicky said. "They came back. They were looking for me. I ran here. What if they followed me?"

"Are you inside the station?" Gibbs stood up, looking over the half-wall that separated their area of the squadroom from the Middle East desks. He snapped his fingers until he caught the attention of one of the agents not on the phone.

"Get Metro PD on the phone," he ordered, and though the agent was not in his chain of command, she recognized the urgency in his voice and jumped to it.

"I'm in the entryway," Nicky said. "I don't want to go into the tunnels."

"Alright. I'm going to send Metro Police to pick you up."

"No! No police. Look, I gotta move. They might be coming."

"Nicky, wait! I'll come get you," Gibbs said.

"I gotta move, Gunny. I'll be at the back of the dining hall on campus in 10 minutes. It's safer there. Can you find me?"

"Yes. Wait for me there."

"I'll try. Hurry," Nicky said, and the line went dead. Gibbs snapped his cell shut and grabbed his coat and gun.

"I've got Metro on the line," the agent called to him from over the wall.

"Never mind." Gibbs said as he rushed out.

* * *

to be continued...

I am grateful to those who've reviewed. As pleased as you are to get a new chapter, I'm double that to hear from those who are reading. So make my morning, will ya?

:o)


	17. Part 16

**One Less - Part 16**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

The sedan's tires skidded a little on the slick pavement as Gibbs stopped in front gate of Gallaudet University, the only liberal arts college for the deaf in the United States. The storm was in full rage now, showing no sign of abating. It had taken him almost 20 minutes to get this far on unplowed streets. Gibbs only hoped Nicky had waited.

The campus wasn't fenced, but all vehicle traffic had to pass through a gate which was closed this time of night. Beyond it, Gibbs could see spots of bright light lining the roads and walking paths, but the rest of the campus was lost in the blowing snow.

"Help you?" the gate guard asked as he stepped out of the guard shack and leaned down next to Gibbs' window. A wide awning kept the worst of the snow from getting to them. Still, rolling down the window made Gibbs shiver. The guard held a flashlight up next to his head and shone the light down onto Gibbs' face from above. His voice was slightly slurred and flat, a sure indication that he had either been born deaf, or had lost his hearing before he learned to speak. That explained the flashlight, too: the guard was illuminating Gibbs' face so he could read Gibbs' lips.

Gibbs turned slightly in his seat, stripped off his gloves, and brought both his hands to where the guard could see them. Many years before, he had learned to speak American Sign Language, and it came in handy more often than one would expect.

"Agent Gibbs, NCIS," he said, speaking as he signed. The guard nodded, then waited while Gibbs took out his ID folder and flashed it. The guard shone his light on it, then nodded again. Gibbs put the folder away as the guard tucked the flashlight into his coat pocket. There was enough illumination coming from the lights around the shack that they could see one another's hands.

"How can I help you?" the guard signed, no longer speaking.

"I've got a witness to a murder who called me from the Metro station, said he was being followed, and asked me to pick him up at the dining hall."

"A student?" the guard asked.

"No. Just one of the locals. He knows the area, said he'd be safe there."

"Not many people hanging around outside in this storm. But you can go look," the guard said.

"Thanks," Gibbs signed. "How do I get there?"

The guard gave him directions, then returned to the shack to release the gate. Gibbs felt the sedan slip sideways as he gunned the accelerator. He backed off and tried to slow down. Wrecking the car would not help.

He followed the guard's directions toward a large brown-brick building near the center of campus. He passed no one on the street, not surprising considering the weather, but he could see lights on in many of the buildings, lighthouses in the storm.

Gibbs parked in a fire zone, leaving the engine running. He kept an eye out for Nicky as he started around toward the back of the hall. Gibbs had barely left the circle of light that illuminated the apron in front of the building when a dark shape moved in the snow and Nicky appeared.

"Gunny!" A stage whisper. "Over here." Gibbs went to where Nicky was hunched over next to a large shrub. The snow was thick here, and Gibbs' boots sunk into it.

"Wow, am I glad to see you. They were chasing me, but I think I lost them."

"Who was, Nicky?" Gibbs asked in a normal voice, and Nicky cringed. He was once again wearing the ski mask and beanie, the NCIS hat DiNozzo had given him nowhere in sight.

"Sshh… they might still be around."

"Did they follow you on campus?" Gibbs asked, lowering his voice slightly. If the killers had actually come looking for Nicky and followed him here, he was going to have to warn someone.

"No, I don't think so. I think I lost them before the station. But I don't know. They could be anywhere."

"Alright. Come with me," Gibbs said.

With a furtive glance over his shoulder into the darkness, Nicky walked quickly away from his hiding place. Gibbs sighed a little and followed. Once they were safely inside the sedan, and Nicky had locked his door, Gibbs turned to him.

"Tell me exactly what happened," he instructed.

"Can we go? I don't want to just sit here. They might find us," Nicky said nervously.

"Sure," Gibbs said. He used a low gear and a light touch on the pedal, starting smoothly away. Nicky was silent until they were through the gate – Gibbs gave the sign for 'finished' to the guard as they passed the shack – then Nicky took a deep breath and let it out in a rush.

"I was in my room, trying to read a magazine I found with this great flashlight Abby bought for me, and I heard people talking on the stairs. I thought it was just other people like me, you know? So I didn't pay any attention. But then I recognized one of their voices, from when the sailor died. They were coming up, trying to be quiet, but sound travels. I heard them on the floor under me and I knew they were coming for me. I tried to sneak out, but sound travels. Did I say that already?" Nicky was frightened and sounded confused.

"Slow down, Nicky. It's alright. Tell me what happened then."

"They musta heard me, cuz they started running upstairs and so I ran to the roof. There's a fire escape on the back, it's still strong, and I ran down it to the street. I swear, they were right behind me. I didn't know where to go."

"Did you actually see them, or just hear them?" Gibbs asked.

"I only heard them. I didn't want to look. But they were right behind me, chasing me into the neighborhood. I lost them there, so I called you, only then I heard them again."

"How many were there?" Gibbs asked.

"Two, or three. I don't know. I heard at least two voices. Did I hear three? I don't know." He palmed his temples and pushed his hands into his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Relax. It's alright," Gibbs said as he turned in through the gate to the Navy Yard.

"No, it's not. How did they know to look for me? How did they know I saw them?"

Gibbs said nothing. He was trying to figure out if what Nicky had experienced had been real, or if it had all been a figment of his addled mind. Nicky had said that he often saw and heard things that weren't there. The whole event might have been a hallucination. But what if it hadn't been? That would mean that someone they spoke to in the last two days had told the suspects about Nicky. Mentally, Gibbs ran back through the interviews: the victim's brother, the ship's Captain, the Chaplin, the prior victims. The Agent Afloat.

"Damn it," Gibbs said under his breath, and Nicky's head jerked up.

"What? Are they here?" He looked over his shoulder, out the side windows, expression clearly frightened.

"No, it's fine. We're safe in here. You need a pass to get onto the Yard."

"But they're Marines! They can sneak in," Nicky insisted.

"Nicky, stop. It's fine. I swear," Gibbs said. He pulled into the parking garage and shut off the engine.

"C'mon," he said and lead Nicky into the building, Nicky looking over his shoulder the entire way.

They by-passed the metal detectors, coming in through the basement staff entrance. Gibbs stopped for coffee in the mess, getting Nicky a large with sugar. The ride up to the squadroom was made mostly in silence, except for a constant low mumble of Nicky talking to himself. Gibbs pulled DiNozzo's chair out next to his desk and told Nicky to sit, then sat at his own desk. He unbuttoned his coat and picked up his phone. He again went through the necessary steps to get the switchboard on the Roosevelt, then asked for the deck officer's station at the gangway. When Gibbs had the watch supervisor on the line, he identified himself and asked about sailors who'd gone off ship tonight. The supervisor gave him a little flack about releasing the information, but when Gibbs tossed in McNally's name, the wheels were greased. The supervisor told him no one who was supposed to be aboard had left the ship in the storm. Gibbs hung up and called DiNozzo's cell.

"Where are you?" Gibbs asked when DiNozzo answered.

"Hangar Bay, USS Roosevelt," DiNozzo replied, not in the least curious as to why Gibbs wanted to know. Gibbs always had his reasons.

"Fredrick with you?" Gibbs asked.

"He's in quarters, as far as I know. We had dinner, and he said he was turning in early."

"The suspects might have come after Nicky. I need to know what he's been doing today," Gibbs said. At the 'might have' qualification, Nicky started to object, and Gibbs held up a silencing hand.

"I've been with him since about an hour after I got here this morning until dinner wrapped around 1900. Unless he did something in the last hour, or slipped someone a message in the passageways, he hasn't arranged anything."

"Find out. If they know about Nicky, we've got a new problem."

"Understood."

"You talk to Holbrook yet?"

"He's on duty until 2300. I'll catch him then." Gibbs checked his watch: almost 8:30.

"Call me when you're done." Gibbs hung up.

"You don't believe me," Nicky said dejectedly.

"I believe you heard them," Gibbs said. "But you told me yourself you sometimes hear things that aren't real."

"Only when I don't take my medicine," Nicky objected, "and I've been taking it real regular since I found him. I swear it, Gunny."

"Alright, then you heard them." Gibbs sat back, drinking his coffee and thinking. At least his headache had receded to a dull throbbing behind his eyes. Nothing he couldn't ignore.

"So what are we going to do now?" Nicky asked. He'd rolled the ski mask up to drink his coffee and left it and the beanie on top of his head. His malformed face showed some fear, some worry, some excitement. He was afraid, but rising to the occasion.

Gibbs had been wondering the same thing. When he'd learned that Nicky had refused their offer of a motel room, Gibbs hadn't been sure that having his only witness to a murder out on the streets was a good idea. But he'd let it happen, knowing that Nicky was street-smart enough to take care of himself, and comfortable in the knowledge that Nicky was virtually anonymous. If the suspects had known he existed, they'd have taken care of him the night it happened or in the days since.

But now, with at least the possibility that the suspects were actively looking for him, Gibbs knew they had to do something else. With an internal sigh, he made up his mind.

"Let's go, Nicky," Gibbs said. He stood and started gathering the multiple reports he'd received that day and packing them into his briefcase. He made sure he had his glasses, picked up his gloves from where he'd tossed them, and turned to find Nicky still sitting in his chair, looking at him suspiciously.

"Where are we going?" Nicky asked.

"You're in protective custody, Nicky. You're going to my house."

"You don't have to do that, Gunny," Nicky said. "There's other places I could go."

"Like where?" Gibbs asked. He indicated Nicky should stand, and returned the chair Nicky had been sitting in to its proper place.

"There's lots of places a guy like me can hide in the District," Nicky said. "Long as those Marines don't know where I am, I'll be fine."

Gibbs started walking toward the elevators, confident that Nicky would follow.

"You're my only witness, and the bad guys came back for you. I need you where I can find you." The elevator dinged and the doors swooshed open. Gibbs stepped back to usher Nicky inside. Again, the older man was suspicious, but he was too busy working his mind around what Gibbs was saying to let the elevator take center stage.

"But my stuff. If I leave it there, without me, it'll be gone by the morning. My new flashlight, my medicine…"

"We'll stop by there first," Gibbs said. The elevator descended to the parking level.

"I don't know, Gunny. I don't like to take too many handouts, you know? I usually work for what I get."

"I'm sure I can find some things that need doing. Tomorrow. For now, it's late, I'm tired, and with that storm, you need a safe place to sleep anyway. Do me the honor of being a guest in my home, Corporal Masterson."

Gibbs' formal phrasing did it. "Well, okay then," Nicky said with a slightly embarrassed flush. They got off the elevator in the garage. "But if we're going back to the warehouse, shouldn't we take back-up or something?"

"Nah. They're long gone, I'm sure," Gibbs said. He ushered Nicky over to the sedan and unlocked the passenger door.

"But what if they're not?" Nicky said as he got in.

"I can be very persuasive," Gibbs said, and pulled back his coat to show his sidearm in its holster.

Nicky sighed and nodded. He pulled his ski mask down over his face. Gibbs slammed the door shut and walked around to the driver's side. He still wasn't positive that what Nicky had seen was real, but he liked to keep an open mind as much as he could. Never knew when someone might come along and drop a thought in it.

They drove carefully through the blowing snow to Nicky's warehouse. Gibbs parked and left the sedan's headlights on, shining toward the main man-door. He got the large flashlight out of his kit, a spare from the trunk for Nicky, and they went inside.

First thing Gibbs noticed was the floor. When they'd left the warehouse yesterday afternoon, the floor had been swept mostly clean by Metro's crime scene people. The dirt inherent to the area was there, and there were stains from years of use, but the floor was relatively clean and definitely dry.

Now it was wet, with puddles of melted snow dotting it here and there. The largest puddles were near the door, but there were others. Like someone had stood in one place for too long with snow melting off their clothing. Not long ago, by Gibbs' estimate. The dirt Metro had left behind had combined with the water to leave fresh muddy footprints leading out of several of the puddles. Gibbs shone his flashlight on the ground at his feet, then crouched to look closer. Large footprints, one larger than Gibbs' feet, one smaller, both waffle-sole boots. Treads only slightly worn. Like the prints Metro had recovered.

"Nicky?" Gibbs stood and turned to the other man, who raised his light to shine it on Gibbs. Gibbs squinted and raised his empty hand to shield his eyes, feeling the headache stab at him again.

"Sorry, Gunny," Nicky said with chagrin, and lowered the beam to the floor. Gibbs took his keys out of his pocket and held them out to Nicky.

"Go get my camera bag out of the trunk."

"Why?" Nicky asked.

"Just go," Gibbs said, and Nicky took the keys. Gibbs shone the light around the receiving area. Both sets of boot prints went across the floor and up the stairs, fading as they went. The larger set reappeared coming out of the puddle nearest the bottom of the stairs and headed back outside. The prints heading up were at a normal pacing. The returning set was spaced much further apart. The larger-footed man had run back down the stairs and outside.

"Here you go," Nicky said as he returned, and he held out the backpack. Gibbs took back the keys and set the bag at his feet, careful not to tread on any of the muddy prints. He took out his camera and shot a few pictures.

"Stay here." He instructed Nicky.

"Where are you going?" Nicky asked.

"Not far. Wait here and don't move."

"You sure?" Nicky said. His tone showed clearly what he thought of that. "Maybe I should come with you."

"I'm not going far," Gibbs repeated. He left the pack where it lay and stepped carefully across the floor, taking pictures as he went. He moved as far as the stairs, stepped up to the first landing and shone his light around the corner. The prints faded out completely only a few steps up. He snapped one last picture and retreated.

"What do you see, Gunny?" Nicky asked nervously as Gibbs returned.

"The Marines were here," Gibbs said.

"Yeah," Nicky said, frowning. "I told you they were. They came upstairs and chased me onto the roof."

"I know," Gibbs said. He put his camera away and shouldered the bag. "Show me where you stay."

With Nicky leading the way, they ascended the stairs. Nicky's room was on the top floor, and Gibbs felt his knees start to complain at the second landing. It had been years since he could climb four flights without wincing, and once again Gibbs wondered if he wasn't getting too old for this.

The door to the room Nicky called his own was slightly ajar, opening out into the hallway. Gibbs was about to ask if Nicky had left it that way when Nicky spoke.

"I leave it a little open, so no one will think it's occupied. If you try to lock it up, they know there's something in it worth protecting." He bent over and picked up a golf-ball sized rock sitting against the door near the hinge. "If anyone opens the door, it'll move my rock. No move, no one's been in. Even though I was in a hurry, I still put it there. Just in case."

Nicky pulled open the door and Gibbs shone his light inside. The room was about five feet by eight, wider than it was deep. A row of cushions were lined up against the back wall, two gray blankets tossed on top. An upended milk crate made a nightstand, a battered camp lantern and a small, well-worn stuffed dog sitting on top of it. The short wall to the right was lined with milk crates, stacked with their open ends out. Clothing, books, a few food items and other personal belongings were packed neatly into the crates. The NCIS hat DiNozzo had given him was sitting on top of the lantern.

"It's not much, but it's mine," Nicky said from behind him.

"It's not bad," Gibbs said. "I've slept in worse places."

"Me too," Nicky agreed. He slipped past Gibbs into the room. Moving to the bed cushions, he reached underneath, pulling out a large flattened backpack. Gibbs turned his light toward the ceiling, bouncing the light so it illuminated the entire space. Nicky started gathering his things.

It only took him a few minutes to put everything from the small room into the pack. Nicky looked over his shoulder at Gibbs before snatching up the stuffed dog and stuffing it into his pocket, where it made a noticeable bulge. Finally, Nicky folded up the blankets and wrapped a belt around them, securing the bundle to the pack before shouldering it.

"That's it?" Gibbs asked. The now-empty crates, the cushions and the lantern were left behind.

"Yeah. It someone else needs this stuff, they can have it. I can find more."

"What about the lantern?" Gibbs asked.

"It doesn't work. It used to. It was a great lantern for awhile."

"What's wrong with it?"

Nicky shrugged. "Don't know. It's got fuel. It just won't light anymore."

"Bring it along. I might have something to fix it," Gibbs said. With a pleased smile, Nicky picked it up.

"You have your medicine?" Gibbs asked.

"Got it," Nicky said, patting his pocket.

"Alright then. Let's go."

They headed back down the stairs. The whole time they'd been there, Gibbs hadn't seen or heard anyone.

"How many people live here?" he asked. Ahead of him, Nicky shrugged again.

"It varies. Maybe five or six regulars who've been staying here most every night this winter. Another couple dozen that come and go. Some strangers, just passing through. It's warm and dry and pretty private."

Gibbs wondered if any of the 'regulars' had seen anything the night Ferrara was killed. He figured it would take a gentle touch to get anything out of most of the homeless, who understandably tended to be skittish around law enforcement, no matter the stripe.

"You think anyone else might have seen anything helpful the night the sailor was killed?" Gibbs asked as they arrived back in the receiving area.

"I didn't see anyone on the stairs when I came down. If someone was coming in, they might have waited outside or came back later if they heard the Marines shouting. It's not smart to show up when someone's mad."

Ziva and McGee could look pretty harmless when they wanted to, Gibbs thought. Maybe he'd send them over in the morning. Unfortunately, they were just as likely to scare everyone back into the shadows as soon as they pulled up in a government sedan.

Gibbs put his pack and Nicky's into the trunk. Before getting into the car, he ran a hand over his hair and brushed the worst of the wet off his shoulders. Nicky just got in.

As they pulled away, Nicky spoke again. "How did they know to come back?" he asked.

This time, it was Gibbs' turn to shrug. "I don't know." He, of course, had been wondering the same thing.

"Did you tell anyone about me?" he asked.

"Not specifically. No one but my team."

"Could they have…"

"No," Gibbs said firmly, and Nicky nodded once, then turned to stare out the window.

"Must be nice to be able to trust people," Nicky said. Gibbs thought he heard a note of forlornness in his voice.

"It is," Gibbs said.

"I used to trust people. Too many people let you down, you stop trusting," Nicky said.

"I know," Gibbs said.

"It was that way in the Marines. You knew who you could trust, and you trusted them with everything."

Gibbs nodded. Nicky fell silent and almost a minute passed before he spoke again, his voice subdued.

"I think, sometimes, that it was pretty stupid of me, to go back for those guys in the barracks after the mortar attack. I know it's selfish. But I think about how different it would have been if I hadn't. I could have stayed in, kept working. I wouldn't have fallen so far."

"We all fall, Nicky."

"You too?" Nicky asked, and turned to look at him.

Gibbs mind involuntarily flashed back, a hyper-speed review of his failures. The men who'd died under his command in Panama and Kuwait, him powerless to stop it. His failure to protect his wife and daughter from the drug dealer intent on their deaths. His three failed marriages. Kate Todd, assassinated while standing next to him on a rooftop not far from here. The sailors on the Cape Fear he couldn't save.

"Me too." Gibbs said and cleared his throat. "Where is he today?"

"Who?"

"The guy you saved from the attack on your barracks."

"He died," Nicky said simply.

"From his injuries?" Gibbs was pretty sure that would have been in the citation.

"No. Couple years later. Killed himself."

A moment of silence followed Nicky's plain statement.

"We all fall, Nicky," Gibbs repeated finally.

Nicky sighed heavily and said nothing more.

* * *

Gibbs stopped on the way home for take-outs, and they ate Chinese at the kitchen island as the storm continued to blow. They made small talk: They'd been in different operational theatres in the same war, and their experiences had been similar. They knew some of the same commanders, shared some of the same frustrations over things that had never seemed to go right. They talked about the current Gulf war, about how it was so different yet so heartbreakingly the same. Once he was comfortable, Nicky turned out to be intelligent and well-spoken, with strong feelings about what had happened back then and the way the world was going now. Gibbs found himself opening up to this lost Marine in a way he had with few others in recent years.

By 10:30, Nicky was yawning and trying hard to pretend he wasn't tired. Gibbs set him up in the first-floor guest room and invited him to take a long soak in the upstairs bath. He also provided a set of sweats for Nicky to wear to bed, cautioning him that the old house sometimes got cold at night, especially when it stormed.

While Nicky played in the tub and the wind rattled the house, Gibbs spread out on the dining room table the reports he'd brought home. He started reading through them, taking notes as he went. He barely acknowledged Nicky coming in to say goodnight an hour or so later, and it wasn't until his cell rang again that he broke away. By then, it was nearly midnight, and he'd gone through an entire pot of special dark roast.

It was DiNozzo. He'd intercepted Lt. Adrian Holbrook on his way back to quarters after his shift was over, flashed the badge and taken him to the chapel to talk. The young officer had seemed immediately nervous. Maybe because he knew what this was about, but more likely simply because the cops made everyone nervous. DiNozzo had started out detailing the investigation into the death of Ferrara, staying far away from the issue of sexual orientation. Then he'd moved into the most recent prior attacks – Goetz, Brisbin, Hutchinson, Ortiz – before bringing up Demmings. Until then, Holbrook had been sympathetic, but claimed to be unsure of what any of it had to do with him. DiNozzo could see the lie there, but chose to ignore it. When DiNozzo mentioned Demmings, Holbrook's radar had gone off, he'd realized why he was here, and his level of nervousness had skyrocketed.

As Demmings had warned them, Holbrook denied knowing anything about Demmings' attack. Sure, they'd known each other, might have even been considered friends within the structure of allowed fraternization between officers and enlisted not in the same chain of command. No, Holbrook hadn't been anywhere with Demmings that night, didn't even know he'd been injured until the scuttlebutt surfaced the next day.

It had taken the full weight of DiNozzo's considerable talent for persuasion to get Holbrook to fold. But once he did, he was a fount of information.

"He still feels really bad about what happened, that night and since," DiNozzo said. "He was two years in, signed up after 9/11, but deferred entry until he finished college. Used the GI Bill. Theoretically, he owed the Navy 160 grand for his education, which he'd have to pay back if he got found out and was discharged.

"He admitted to being out with Demmings that night, said they were walking back to the carrier separately. Saw the suspects approaching Demmings, saw the flash-bang go off, saw Demmings go down. When he heard what they were shouting at Demmings, he started to run away. But he saw how hard Demmings was being beat and came back. He's apparently some kind of semi-pro fighter, and he got a few good hits in, knocked one of them out for a minute. His buddy dragged him away, he came around, and they took off. Holbrook made sure Demmings was breathing and conscious, made a payphone call to the local ambulance, and left him there. Never saw him again. Followed his progress through the grapevine, but never asked directly.

"He's been waiting three and a half years for the call to the Captain's office. Thought that's what I was doing tonight. He's actually gotten a bit paranoid, which I'm sure you can understand. I mean, think about the axe that kid's had hanging over his head all this time…"

"DiNozzo, it's late. Can you get to the point?" Gibbs interrupted.

"Sorry, Boss. He wants to help."

"What?" Gibbs said. That jump was a little to wide for his exhausted brain to follow.

"When he finally believed I wasn't here with his discharge papers, and that I didn't really care who he was sleeping with, he asked how he could help. I mentioned that we were running into brick walls because of the secrets the victims were keeping, and he offered to ask around. Even offered to bait a trap if we were thinking of going that way," DiNozzo said. "He asked if we might be able to establish some cover for him if it gets out that he's gay, so he can stay in the Navy anyway, but I don't think that's a deal breaker. He feels guilty for abandoning Demmings, for making him lie on the report. Really wants to make it up to him somehow. I think they were actually in love." DiNozzo sounded a little surprised.

"He ask about immunity?" Withholding information in a criminal investigation was a court-martial offense. So was being gay, for that matter.

"Nope," DiNozzo said. Gibbs' eyebrows rose in surprise.

"So let me get this straight," he said. "Holbrook knows you're with NCIS, admitted to being gay, admitted withholding information, offered to help out the cops, and he doesn't want immunity or a guarantee of protection? What does he want?"

"A clean conscience," DiNozzo said. Gibbs shook his head. Rarely did people surprise him anymore.

"Tell him to stand by. We'll get back to him. Your cover still good with Fredrick?"

"Yep. Haven't seen him since dinner. He doesn't know I met with Holbrook."

"Who does?"

"Couple of senior officers we passed in the passageway on the way here. The Chaplin poked his head in just as we were wrapping it up. No one knows what we were talking about."

"The deck logs say Fredrick was on board all night the night Ferrara was killed, and tonight. So he's not one of the players. But if he's running this thing, he wouldn't have to leave the carrier to make it work. No one was logged off ship tonight when they came looking for Nicky."

"So our suspects aren't from the crew who's already reported aboard," DiNozzo said.

"Not tonight's suspects, anyway," Gibbs said.

"Odds are getting better, Boss. Only about a thousand sailors and Marines still to report as of curfew tonight. And everyone's to be on board by 1600 Friday. That's less than 48 hours."

"At least Nicky will be safer after that," Gibbs commented, and that twigged something in his brain, too. "Stay on Fredrick tomorrow. If it's him, he's running out of time to take care of the witness before the carrier group sails. He'll have to arrange for another move on Nicky soon."

"About that, Boss. She's scheduled to shove off at 1600 Saturday. Are you sure I can't…" Gibbs hung up, cutting DiNozzo off mid-sentence.

Gibbs wasn't comfortable with the idea of setting Holbrook up to be exposed and possibly attacked. It would be one thing to send in an agent: if rumors started that an agent going undercover as a gay sailor was really gay, it wouldn't be a career ender. But this kid could really lose out. Besides, he was an unknown. But maybe Holbrook could get other potential victims to open up about who they might suspect. Because if there was one thing Gibbs was absolutely certain about, it was that there were more gay sailors aboard the Roosevelt. Which meant the crusade wasn't over yet.

If the Marine in the Quantico brig was part of this, he might be able to point them toward the leader of the conspiracy. Which would at least give them a solid line of investigation. Getting the bastards who'd actually done the dirty work would be good. But if they didn't get the leader, the whole thing could just start up again somewhere else. The leader was the key. And if it was Fredrick, Gibbs would take great pleasure in taking him down. Bad enough that Navy sailors were involved. That it might be being led by an agent of NCIS made Gibbs see red.

* * *

Gibbs finished reading the reports around 1 a.m. and went to bed. His headache was back with a vengeance, and even a hot shower and more of the pills Ducky had given him hadn't helped. He lay in bed for what seemed like a very long time before finally drifting off, only to wake hard half an hour later, a scream dying in his throat. Again, that feeling of foreboding. Like had had barely escaped death. This time, it was about Kate. And Ari.

It had been almost four years since Kate Todd was assassinated, four years since Mossad/Hamas double agent Ari Haswari had died, shot by Ziva, his handler and his half-sister. To this day, everyone believed Gibbs had killed Ari. In fact, Gibbs had dared Ziva to prove her brother wasn't planning on killing him by backing Gibbs up when he and Ari met. Gibbs had not expected the meeting to take place in his own basement. When Ari had spelled out his plan to fake Gibbs' suicide, then raised Gibbs' own Marine sniper rifle to take the shot, Ziva had beat him to it. It was important to her future in Mossad, and to her own emotional well-being, that no one know she had killed her brother. Gibbs had been happy to take responsibility for eliminating that threat to his family.

After Kate's death, he had often seen Ari's face in his nightmares. The man was dead, Gibbs knew that. He'd cleaned Ari's blood off the basement floor himself. But his subconscious behaved otherwise. Ari had starred in every night terror he'd experienced for months after that horrific day. It had happened less and less over time, and now Gibbs couldn't remember the last time he'd dreamed of the terrorist. But that's what he'd seen tonight: Kate's face, the bullet hole suddenly appearing in her forehead, her final fall, Ari's grinning face in his basement that last night.

Gibbs squeezed his eyes shut in the darkness and tried to clear his mind. He took a couple of deep breaths and felt the tension behind his eyes ease a little. As he had last night, he got up and washed his face, made coffee in the kitchen, then descended to the basement. The storm had begun to abate: It was still snowing, he noticed as he passed the windows, but the house was no longer shimmying under the wind's assault. Gibbs had no better idea tonight than last why he was having nightmares. Usually, if he tried hard, he could find something, some reason why his subconscious would be tormenting him. But there had been nothing. Just the usual, run-of-the-mill bastards trying to change the world for the worse. And one homeless Marine.

As he picked up a sanding block and adjusted his work light, Gibbs wondered if Nicky's appearance might have something to do with it. The nightmares had started the night they caught this case. If it wasn't the crime, maybe it was Nicky.

There was no doubt Nicky had gotten to him. He rarely brought guests home these days, and bringing someone into his house the day after meeting him was certainly unusual. But there was something about Nicky. Gibbs felt like – if the situation was different – they could have been friends. They certainly had enough in common, or had had before Nicky's accident. They'd both been from small towns, using the Marines as an escape. They'd had similar experiences at war, and they were only a few years apart in age. While reading the reports tonight, he'd found his mind returning over and over to Nicky's story. How could it be that two men could come from such similar backgrounds, start out in the same career, end up in the same place, yet be living such different lives?

With a sigh born of the futility of trying to figure out fate, Gibbs went to work.

* * *

to be continued...

Okay, I know this one was a little long. But I wanted to get you to this point, dear readers, because tomorrow (their tomorrow, not ours, sorry) we're going to meet someone new who might - just might - hold the key to the whole thing. Maybe.

Oh, and feedback - good, bad, indifferent - is always welcome.


	18. Part 17

**One Less - Part 17**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

When first light came and Nicky woke, it took him a minute to figure out where he was. He hadn't slept so well in longer than he could remember. He'd figured it wasn't likely he'd have to suddenly leave from here, so he'd stripped down to the new underclothes Abby had insisted he buy, put on the sweats Gibbs had given him, and climbed between the crisp sheets. It was wonderful. He was awake now, but he wasn't sure if he should get up and have breakfast without asking the Gunny first, so he just lay in the bed and enjoyed the warmth, the softness, and the complete lack of fear.

When the little clock beside the bed hit 8:00, Nicky started to wonder if maybe he shouldn't be getting up. Maybe Gibbs was already gone to work. Maybe he'd left a note.

Nicky dressed in his inside clothes and went to the bathroom down the hall. He took his medicine, washed his face and hands, rinsed out his mouth and used a little of the toothpaste he found in a drawer to clean his teeth. Satisfied, he went to the kitchen looking for a note. Nothing. But there was an almost full pot of coffee on the burner. It smelled old. Nicky thought about putting some in a mug for himself, but decided to find the Gunny first.

He stood still in the center of the kitchen and closed his eyes, listening to the house. It was something he'd learned to do in the Marines. He could usually tell if there was anyone alive within shooting distance. It had nothing to do with hearing. It was more a feeling he got when there was someone nearby. It had never failed him, and sometimes he could use it tell the difference between real people and hallucinations. He couldn't feel things that weren't real.

After a minute, he opened his eyes and frowned. There was someone here, but he couldn't figure out where. Somewhere close.

Nicky looked around himself. The kitchen was in the middle of the house, and he could see the living room toward the front, a den at the back. Both rooms were empty. There hadn't been anyone in any of the rooms down the hall by where he'd slept: He would have felt them already. There was a little room off the side of the kitchen, and Nicky looked through the doorway. A washer, a dryer, and a set of stairs leading down. He stepped onto the landing and looked down over the rail into the basement.

"Hello? Are you there, Gunny?" Nicky called softly.

There was something made of wood in the middle of the basement. It had windows. It looked like a little house. A very little house. It was on sawhorses, and Gibbs was lying on his back on the floor under it. For a second, Nicky thought something bad had happened to Gibbs, and he started down the stairs as quick as he could. Three steps down, Gibbs heard him and suddenly sat up with his back to the stairs, smacking his head on the bottom of the little house.

"Gunny, you okay?" Nicky asked, and Gibbs spun toward him, rising from seated to kneeling in one quick motion and reaching for his hip. His hand closed on empty air, and he seemed to pause for a second before sitting back on his heels and rubbing his head.

"Nicky," Gibbs said. He slid out from under the wheelhouse and stood.

"You alright?" Nicky asked again.

"Yeah. Didn't hear you. What time is it?" Gibbs moved to the workbench and picked up his coffee mug. He raised it to his lips but some sixth sense stopped him from drinking. He stuck his finger in it and grimaced at the cold.

"After 8:00."

"What?" Gibbs said, looking sharply at him. "Damn it." He smacked the mug back down on the bench and dashed for the stairs. He squeezed past Nicky and a second later Nicky heard him on the upper stairs.

Nicky returned to the kitchen. He figured when Gibbs came running back down, he would need some coffee. So he dumped the pot of cold and starting looking for filters and grind. The shower started upstairs. He looked out the window and saw that the storm had stopped, though the sky still wasn't clear. There was a smooth blanket of thick snow on Gibbs' back porch and across the backyard. Nicky hoped the roads had been plowed, because otherwise Gunny was really going to be late.

When Gibbs reappeared a scant 10 minutes later, the coffee was done and Nicky was ready to go. Nicky had gathered his pack and his outer clothes and was sitting at the kitchen island waiting for him. Gibbs pulled a clean travel mug out of the cupboard and filled it with fresh brew. He sipped a little, then turned to Nicky.

"Good coffee. You want some to go?" When Nicky nodded, Gibbs filled another mug.

"I don't keep sugar," Gibbs said, remembering Nicky's sweet tooth.

"That's alright. Did you sleep good in the basement?"

"Usually do," Gibbs said, and grabbed his overcoat. They headed outside. The day was overcast and gray. The weather suited Gibbs' mood. He considered the snow in his driveway: The wind had blown drifts high against the house, but the driveway was mostly clear. A couple of inches, but Gibbs figured the sedan could take it.

Gibbs had worked on the boat for several hours before his crossing eyes and tired hands made it impossible to continue. Still, he wasn't ready for sleep. He'd thought about taking a shot of bourbon – it had certainly helped last night – but didn't want to be even a little tipsy with Nicky in the house. So he'd laid out on the floor under the wheelhouse and stared up at the underside of it, much like he would do once she was on the water.

He tried hard, most of the time, to keep himself in the present. It was easier, and if Gibbs was willing to admit it to himself, safer. But the nightmare had forced the past into his mind and he'd had a hell of a time re-grounding himself. It wasn't just Ari and Kate. It was Shannon and Kelly, the others he'd lost, the times he'd failed people who counted on him. Every time he thought his brain had reached the end of the list, another of his demons appeared. He hadn't had this much trouble centering himself in more years than he could remember.

Nicky's feet on the stairs had woken Gibbs from another dark dream. He didn't realize what had wakened him at first, and that combined with the knock on the head made him start badly when Nicky called out to him. His instinctive reach for his sidearm was aborted almost before his hand closed on empty air as his brain caught up.

Now he was running late. For the second morning in a row. He hated being late. It was unprofessional. Un-Marine-like. It felt like weakness.

"Hey Gunny, how come you were sleeping in the basement?" Nicky asked as he helped brush the snow off the sedan's windows. "That bed you gave me was really comfortable. Isn't yours comfortable?" Nicky's eyes widened. "That wasn't your bed you gave me, was it?"

"I've got my own bed," Gibbs said. They climbed into the car and Gibbs started it up.

"Good, cuz I'd had felt real bad if… So why were you sleeping in the basement? That little house you're building is awfully small. Is it a dog house?"

Gibbs shook his head. "You always ask so many questions in the morning, Nicky?" He gunned the engine a little, waiting for it to warm before they pulled out.

"Sorry, Gunny. I like mornings. I'll shut up now."

"It's alright. I'm in a bad mood. I don't like to be late."

"You should use an alarm clock. I've never needed one. I usually wake up at first light, even if I can't see the light. It's like my brain just knows it's morning. I really like mornings."

"Nicky, enough," Gibbs said. He sipped at his coffee.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's a sign of weakness." Gibbs put the car in gear. The wheels spun a little before they found purchase and the sedan pushed backwards through the snow.

"No it's not," Nicky argued. "It's a sign of strength. It's what men do when they're wrong."

Gibbs looked over at him and smiled. "Haven't had anyone do that in a while," he said.

"What?" Nicky asked.

"Argue with me about the rules."

"What rules?"

"Never mind. Can you just be quiet for a few minutes?"

"Sure thing." Nicky mimed locking his mouth and throwing away a key, then turned to look out the side window.

"Looks like there might be more snow," Nicky said a minute later. "I used to like the snow. Not so much now."

Gibbs drank his coffee and tried to ignore Nicky. To his credit, Nicky did keep remembering he was supposed to be quiet, but it was like he couldn't help himself. Gibbs supposed he didn't get to spend much time talking to real people. And it wasn't bad, really. Gibbs was just in a lousy mood.

He'd almost managed to wall off Nicky's chatter as just so much white noise, when the other man said something that caught Gibbs' attention.

"I should what?" Gibbs asked, not sure he'd heard right.

"You should let me go back, and tell them where I am," Nicky said. He seemed uncertain.

"Tell who?" Gibbs asked.

"The Marines. You should tell them where I am."

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"Because then you could catch them for sure," Nicky said. When Gibbs frowned at him, he elaborated. "Yesterday, they found out where I stay, and they came back looking for me. I was by myself and I was scared and I ran away. Maybe if you tell them I'm back there, they'll come again, and if you're there hiding out where they can't see you, I won't be so scared, and you can catch them. It works that way sometimes, doesn't it? I mean, it does on Law and Order."

"Yeah, it works that way sometimes," Gibbs said, his mind ranging in that direction. It could work. But would it be worth the risk? These bastards had proven they could surprise their victims and incapacitate them without much trouble. Gibbs' team would have to be very careful, or Nicky would pay the price.

"Isn't that a good idea?" Nicky asked.

"It could be dangerous," Gibbs cautioned. Nicky shrugged.

"No guts, no glory," Nicky said, and Gibbs had to smile.

"I'll think about it," he said.

* * *

The drive took longer than usual, too many people who didn't know how to handle the snow. It was more than half an hour after leaving the house before they pulled into the parking garage at NCIS. Gibbs got out of the car, leaving his stuff behind.

"You can leave your bag here, Nicky. I've got a job for you this morning."

"Okay," Nicky said, and climbed out. He trailed after Gibbs as they walked out of the garage and down the block away from the headquarters building. Nicky was looking around, trying to figure out where they were going, but he said nothing. Navy efficiency meant the sidewalks inside the Yard had already been shoveled and the going was easy.

Gibbs walked him across the Navy Yard to the base's small market and supply shop. The shopkeepr and his wife had run the base exchange together for several decades until she'd died two years ago. Now Gregor ran it alone.

When the bell over the door rang, the proprietor looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

"Gibbs! Long time no see. How've you been, old friend?"

"Who're you calling old, Gregor?" The two men greeted each other with a handshake and a one-armed hug.

"This is Corporal Masterson, US Marines, Retired. He goes by Nicky. Nicky, this is Gregor."

"Hello," Nicky said. Gregor offered a hand to shake, but Nicky was skittish and looked to Gibbs for guidance.

"It's alright, Nicky. Gregor's a friend." Nicky shook, quickly, then stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.

"Nicky needs some work. You got anything that needs doing?" Gibbs asked, and narrowed his eyes at Gregor. They'd known one another a long time. As a recently retired Marine who still had some strings to pull, Gibbs had arranged it so one of Gregor's grandsons could join the Corps even with half a dozen misdemeanor drug possession charges on his record. The former addict had become an excellent Marine and had been a credit to the Corps for many years before being killed by an IED in Iraq in 2004. Despite his death, Gregor still felt he owed Gibbs for turning his grandson's life around. In his mind, the boy had lived much longer as a Marine than he ever would have on the streets.

As a result of their history, and because he knew Gibbs pretty well, the older man didn't ask Gibbs to explain his request.

"I've got some stock that needs unpacking in the back. Might take a couple hours."

"Perfect. Nicky, I'll pick you up for lunch."

"Okay," Nicky said with a shrug. He still looked a little nervous.

"Would you like something to eat, Nicky? Okay if I call you Nicky?" Gregor asked.

"Sure. Yes, it's okay. That's my name. Nicky. And something to eat would be nice."

Gregor smiled. "I have some muffins in the little kitchen in the back. And some coffee. Why don't you get some, then I'll show you what I need done. You can hang your coat up on the rack back there."

"Okay," Nicky said agreeably. He turned to Gibbs. "Don't forget to think about the plan, 'kay Gunny?"

"I will," Gibbs agreed, and Nicky nodded, then stepped through the curtain Gregor indicated.

"So why am I hiring someone to move my boxes around?" Gregor asked quietly as the curtain fell back into place behind Nicky.

"He's a witness to the murder of a sailor. Homeless, a little off, but a good man. The suspects came after him last night, and I need him where I can find him. Keep him busy for me?"

"Any chance the suspects might come looking for him here?" Gregor asked. He seemed only curious. The Navy Yard was a pretty secure environment, populated as it was by members of a well-armed military force.

"Highly unlikely. I just can't have him sitting over at the office. And he likes to work for what he gets."

"We'll get along fine then. I'll see you at lunch time." Gregor gestured him out, and Gibbs clapped him on the shoulder.

"Thanks." He headed back to the office.

* * *

When Gibbs stepped off the elevator, he found Ziva and McGee staring at something on the plasma next to McGee's desk. He had enough time to recognize the image – someone sitting in interrogation – but not enough to figure out who they were looking at or why, before Ziva glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the elevator's ding, saw Gibbs, and quickly touched McGee's arm. The image on the screen vanished. Gibbs rounded the corner and went to his desk as the two agents quickly returned to their own. Gibbs filed it away.

"Good morning, Gibbs," Ziva said, her voice the perfect sound of innocence.

"Officer David," Gibbs acknowledged. He took off his coat and gloves, setting them on the cabinet behind him, then unclipped his holster and stowed his gun. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ziva still staring at him, and on the other side realized McGee was trying not to.

"Something wrong?" he asked them as he sat in front of his computer. They again looked at each other, then Ziva spoke.

"Traffic bad?" she asked.

"Nope," Gibbs said. He knew they were trying to figure out why he was late the second day in a row. He also knew he wouldn't ease their curiosity. It just wasn't his style. He worked his computer for a minute, waiting for them to make a move. When neither did, he looked up again.

"One of you have something for me? Or are you just going to sit there exchanging meaningful glances?" Gibbs asked them. McGee was first to speak.

"Um, Abby emailed me the deck officer's logs for the attacks where we have duplicate DNA." He referred to a printed page on the desk in front of him. "I'm working on cross-referencing individuals who was signed off the ship on the night of each attack, looking at the time frame of the attack, groups who signed out in close time proximity to each other, then pulling the service histories and duty logs for everyone who's…"

"Get to the point, McGee," Gibbs interrupted.

"Right. Our best lead is the two common samples from the attacks in Spain. March of 2004 and January of '07. The same individuals were assigned to the ship and off duty both those nights, three years apart. It's possible we already have enough information to statistically eliminate all but a few of the Roosevelt's sailors. Might give us somewhere to go."

Gibbs nodded. "Anything on the flash bangs?"

"I found three places in the tri-state where they could have bought reloads. I thought we could go check them out this morning."

"Ziva?"

"It appears that McGee did not miss anything. I was not able to come up with anything that links all twelve victims." Gibbs sighed. They had to be missing something. But like his agents, he had no clue what.

"Is that O'Sullivan in interrogation?" he asked, gesturing at the blank plasma. Both agents looked at it, as if wondering what Gibbs was seeing that they weren't.

"He arrived approximately one hour ago," Ziva confirmed.

"What's he doing?" Gibbs asked, and looked expectantly at the screen. McGee and Ziva exchanged another look, then McGee clicked the remote and turned the view back on.

"He's writing," McGee said.

"Very rapidly," Ziva added. Gibbs could immediately see why they'd been watching O'Sullivan with such interest. The Marine sitting at the table in interrogation was in fact writing something very quickly on a yellow-lined legal pad. As they watched, he reached the bottom of the page, then tore it off and set it upside down on a stack of similar pages. His hands were cuffed in front of him, and he adjusted the chain before starting over on a fresh page. The stack of torn-off papers was visibly thick, about half the pad if Gibbs was any judge.

"He's been doing that non-stop since the brig guard left him there," McGee reported.

"Where'd the guard go?" Gibbs asked.

"He is standing post outside the door," Ziva replied. "He said the prisoner was no danger to himself."

Gibbs considered the man on the screen. He was wearing a utility uniform: green t-shirt and khaki cammies in the MARPAT woodland pattern. It was the standard uniform for Marines in confinement, unless they caused trouble. In which case, they'd be wearing jumpsuits whose various color designations told guards and other prisoners how much trouble they'd caused. The young Marine had a dark brush cut. Regulation high and tight. He was also obviously a very large man, dwarfing the chair he was sitting in. It looked like his knees were probably pressing against the underside of the table. He had to be 6'8, and though he looked thin, he probably weighed more than 250, maybe even 275. The small size of the room only added to the illusion that he was sitting at a child's play table.

"Anything on Brisbin yet?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Nothing," McGee said. "There's no phone listing for him in Coeur d'Alene or surrounding areas. The address the checks go to is a mail drop. They say he comes in once a month on check day. He doesn't get any other mail there. I've tried all the usual tricks, but he's nowhere."

Gibbs turned to face them. "Alright. Go work on the flash-bangs," Gibbs told them. While they gathered their gear, he pulled O'Sullivan's file out of his briefcase, along with the file on Demmings' attack. Gibbs had read both the night before. Before his demotion and confinement, O'Sullivan had been a member of the Second Marine Logistics Group out of Camp Lejuene, North Carolina. He'd been leader of a squad of 12 Marines responsible for the inventorying, maintenance, repair and distribution of small arms for the First Battalion, Second Division. They'd gone to Iraq aboard the Roosevelt in the Spring of 2005. As the Marine units had been dropped off at various bases throughout Europe and the Middle East, O'Sullivan and his squad had stayed with the Battalion's dwindling armory aboard the Roosevelt. Which meant he'd been with the ship's crew for all three of the attacks that had taken place that year, including the one on Major Ortiz.

According to his SRB, O'Sullivan was an average Marine. Nothing significantly positive or negative about him. He was of average intelligence, with average skill at just about everything he did. He'd received no commendations beyond the usual. Every CO who'd put a note in his jacket said O'Sullivan was an adequate Marine, made his marks, earned his promotions on schedule, but nothing more. The only thing close to noteworthy had been two non-punitive letters of caution for fighting. Not necessarily a red flag: Hell, Gibbs had earned one of those himself early in his career, before he'd settled down.

Gibbs knew that the complement of small arms O'Sullivan was responsible for included flash bangs. Add that to his evasiveness about explaining his injury, his apparent difficulty controlling his anger, and the fact that his stated religious preference was Catholic, and he became a more than logical suspect.

Gibbs glanced once more at the plasma. O'Sullivan was still writing, pausing occasionally to adjust the cuffs or make some other small movement, but never for more than a few seconds before returning to his work. Gibbs said a soft "huh" to himself, then clicked off the screen and went to meet the man.

* * *

Outside interrogation, a Marine brig guard was lounging on a straight chair. When Gibbs rounded the corner, the guard glanced up at him, then did a double take and frowned.

"Gibbs?" the Marine asked. Gibbs looked more closely at him, trying to place the semi-familiar face. Hispanic, a little smaller and a lot younger than he was, Staff Sergeant racks on his arms. He glanced at the name tag and an old memory struggled to surface.

"Acosta… Allan?" he asked.

"You got it. Long time no see." The Marine stood and the two men shook hands familiarly.

"What's it been, 15 years?" Gibbs asked as they separated.

"Almost 20, old man," Acosta said with a grin, and he reached up to touch Gibbs' gray hair. Gibbs flinched away with a smile. That was the second time in less than an hour someone had called him old.

The memories came back, like it was last week instead of a lifetime ago. Acosta had been a young recruit with scads of potential, but he was too full of piss and vinegar, too eager to prove himself to anyone who challenged him. Gibbs had been one of the supervisory non-commissioned officers responsible for the brig at Camp Pendleton, and Acosta had been a frequent visitor there. Never anything serious, but he had a habit of pissing off the wrong officers and ending up in lockdown for days or weeks at a time. Gibbs had tried to work with him, tried to change his course, but the kid was too ornery.

"You stayed in," Gibbs stated the obvious.

"Yup. Came time to reup, my CO wanted to muster me out. I realized I wanted to stay. Took that on as my next fight."

"Why?" Gibbs asked. "Unless I'm remembering wrong, you couldn't wait to get out."

Acosta smiled, his expression rueful. "No, you're right. But when the time came, I suddenly realized I'd never had it so good. What other job was I going to get where they housed me, fed me, and let me play with guns?"

Gibbs chuckled. "So you're at Quantico?" he asked.

"Almost a year now. I finally made E-6 back in 2003." The pride was clear in his voice.

"Going for Gunny?" Gibbs asked. Acosta shook his head with a grin.

"Nah. I'll have my 20 in next year. If I stick around after that, it'll just be to stay in the uniform."

Gibbs nodded, a small spike of jealousy poking his heart. When he'd made Gunnery Sergeant, he'd known without a doubt that that was how he'd spend the rest of his working life. Then the phone call, the mortar attack, and it was all over.

"How about you? Did you start here after you retired?" Acosta asked.

"Nope. Messed up my leg in Desert Storm. Been here about 18 years."

"Wow. Who'd have figured I'd be the one to stay and you'd have to go."

"Yeah," Gibbs said, tamping down the pain of that irony by sheer force of will. He'd never regretted joining NCIS, but he often wished he'd been able to stay an active duty Marine. It had taken him years at NCIS to be as comfortable out of his uniform as he had been almost immediately in it.

"So what do you want with O'Sullivan?" Acosta asked. He could see the effect his words were having on Gibbs in the older man's suddenly shuttered expression, and he moved the conversation to more neutral ground.

"He might have been involved in something we're investigating."

"You know he's been in custody about eight months, right?" Acosta asked. Gibbs nodded.

"It's a cold case. We just want to see what he remembers. What can you tell me about him?"

"Nice kid. A little strange in some ways. But disciplined and compliant. A natural-born grunt. He's harmless enough unless he's been drinking. He's got four months or so left on his sentence, then he'll be dishonorably discharged and sent on his way."

"A DD for an accident?" Gibbs asked. He'd read that in O'Sullivan's file, but he thought there might be more to it.

Acosta shrugged. "It was part of the deal he made. The punch that took out his buddy was intentional. The result wasn't, but he had civilian training as a medical technician prior to joining the Corps, and the JAG prosecutor said he should have recognized the potential seriousness of the injury, gotten him help sooner. They were going to charge him with reckless homicide after the victim's parents took him off life support, but the guy didn't die. Court Martialing him for attempted murder was their next move. If he'd been was found guilty it would have meant a year's hard labor at Leavenworth followed by eight to twelve in a civilian prison. He took a plea."

"Yeah, alright," Gibbs said.

"Hey, can I play?" Acosta asked, a sudden gleam in his eye. "I learned interrogation techniques from a master." He popped the back of his hand against Gibbs' chest. Gibbs shook his head with a smile.

"Nah. But you can watch. Observation's through there." He indicated the closed door.

"I think I'm going to enjoy this. It'll be just like old times. Only it's not going to be my neck you're breathing down." He paused for a second, wanting to say something, but clearly hesitating. Gibbs cocked his head a little, giving him the moment.

"I never got the chance to thank you, Gunny. For showing me what it meant to be a Marine, how a man should live. You really did make a difference."

Gibbs held his gaze, saw the sincerity there, and nodded once.

"If it hadn't been me, you'd have figured it out on your own." Gibbs pushed through into interrogation.

* * *

to be continued...

The next part of this should be up tomorrow (yes, our tomorrow) and we'll find out what - if anything - O'Sullivan knows. Thanks for reading, and for feedback. It's always welcome, here or directly at joykatleen AT aol DOT com.


	19. Part 18

**One Less - Part 18**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

O'Sullivan glanced up at Gibbs as he entered, then went immediately back to his writing. Gibbs pulled out his own chair, set down the files he was carrying and considered the kid. Even hunched over to write, O'Sullivan was head and shoulders above Gibbs. His short hair was jet black, yet his skin was pink and freckled. Black Irish was the term for it, if Gibbs remembered right. He heard a small whispering sound and realized O'Sullivan was talking to himself as he wrote, almost but not quite silently. Gibbs let him continue what he was doing, watching as he spilled out line after line on the yellow pad. His handwriting – printing, actually – was neat and easily readable even from Gibbs' upside down perspective. Gibbs leaned back in his chair just a little to bring the words into his focus and read as O'Sullivan wrote.

It was a story of some kind, Gibbs realized fairly quickly, with descriptive narrative and spoken dialogue. Two people with odd names that had to be traditional Irish like O'Sullivan's own, were involved in some kind of sneak attack on someone. He read down a few lines and realized they were… hunting elves?

"What're you writing?" Gibbs asked when it became clear that O'Sullivan wasn't going to stop. When the bigger man didn't react, Gibbs reached across the table for the stack of filled pages. Quicker than Gibbs could react, O'Sullivan moved his cuffed hands sideways and trapped Gibb's wrist under the chain holding the bracelets together. There was no threat, no force, just an effective stop to Gibbs' movement.

"Please don't touch those, sir," O'Sullivan said. His voice was low, but firm, with a lilting Irish accent obvious even in those few words. Gibbs pulled his hand back and O'Sullivan lifted his wrists to release him. O'Sullivan – having never looked up from the paper – went back to his writing. Gibbs was frankly impressed, both with the speed and the control of the big man. O'Sullivan had moved faster than Gibbs could react, yet Gibbs hadn't even for a second felt he was being threatened. The message was delivered, with clarity and speed, and nothing more. Gibbs wondered how much of this control the kid had learned in the last eight months. Because if he'd had it before then, he probably wouldn't have ended up in the brig. Of course, Acosta had said the kid was harmless when he wasn't drinking. Like a lot of young men, it was the alcohol that fueled the rage.

"I'm going to need your attention for this," Gibbs said after another minute had passed. He matched his tone and volume to O'Sullivan's. The younger man nodded once, put a period at end of the sentence he was writing, then carefully set his pen down and turned the pad over. He put the accumulated pages writing side down on top of the pad, then folded his hands together on top of the stack. He sat up straight and raised his eyes to settle on middle distance straight ahead: Somewhere above Gibbs' head.

"What are you writing?" Gibbs asked again. It didn't matter, but Gibbs wanted to establish the tone for this meeting: Casual, non-threatening.

"It's personal, sir," O'Sullivan replied, not lowering his gaze.

"You don't have to sir me, Private O'Sullivan. My name is Special Agent Gibbs. Do you know why you're here?"

"No, Special Agent Gibbs. Staff Sergeant Acosta came to get me at breakfast, said I was needed at NCIS."

"And you don't know why?"

"No, Special Agent Gibbs." Still, O'Sullivan didn't lower his gaze.

"And you don't want to tell me what you're writing?" Gibbs said.

"It's nothing that is any concern of NCIS," O'Sullivan stated.

"How do you know?" Gibbs asked.

"Sir?" O'Sullivan asked, as if he didn't quite understand the question.

"How do you know what's my concern if you don't know why you're here?" Gibbs asked.

Finally, O'Sullivan brought his eyes down and looked directly at Gibbs. He blinked several times.

"It's how I pass the time, Special Agent Gibbs. I write. I'd go crazy with the boredom otherwise."

"They don't keep you busy at Quantico?"

"Lots of busy work. Not much to keep the mind occupied."

Gibbs understood: The work they provided for military personnel in confinement was no longer of the break-up rocks variety, but it was close.

"So you write. Stories?"

O'Sullivan looked carefully at Gibbs, holding his eye as he said: "Fairy Tales. For my daughter."

Gibbs had noted that O'Sullivan had one child, a little girl, just turned six. He didn't blink.

"She must miss you," Gibbs said.

"She does," O'Sullivan admitted.

"She live with her mother?" Gibbs asked. O'Sullivan's file said he'd been married when he entered the Marine Corps five years before, but was currently single. Gibbs figured they were legally separated at the least, probably divorced. Being a military wife was hard. It would have become even more difficult after O'Sullivan was convicted of a crime.

"With her grandparents. My parents. My wife isn't with us anymore."

"She divorce you?" Gibbs asked. O'Sullivan hesitated.

"Yes," he answered, and Gibbs felt the lie. He decided to let it go. For now.

"I have a few questions about an accident you had in 2005."

O'Sullivan's broad face showed confusion. "What accident, sir?"

"You were aboard the Roosevelt, delivering troops."

"Yes," O'Sullivan said. "Through most of that year."

"And you had an accident," Gibbs said.

"No I didn't," O'Sullivan said. Gibbs could see he was searching his memory and gave him a few more details.

"You went to the infirmary in the middle of the day, claimed you'd slipped getting into your rack the night before and were feeling dizzy and nauseous."

O'Sullivan's eyes widened and he made a move as if to reach for the side of his head. The cuff around his leading wrist jerked hard against the other hand, stopping him.

"Let me get that for you," Gibbs said. He pulled his key ring out of his pants pocket, picked out a handcuff key, and reached across the table. O'Sullivan, still looking confused at the topic of discussion, held his hands out. Gibbs deftly unlocked the cuffs and folded them into the pocket of his sport coat. With both Acosta and the recording tech watching them through the one-way glass, Gibbs figured he could hold his own against any attack O'Sullivan might launch long enough for help to arrive. But he wasn't really worried. Acosta had said he was harmless, and the prisoner was Acosta's responsibility: If O'Sullivan screwed up, it was Acosta who would have to answer for it, so the Staff Sergeant would know plenty about what he was likely to do.

"Thank you," O'Sullivan said as he rubbed at his wrists.

"You remember the accident now?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes."

"So what really happened?" Gibbs asked.

"Just what I said. I hit my head on my rack. Not a big deal. It used to happen about once a week every time I was aboard ship. Racks aren't made for guys my size."

"The ship's physician who examined you said you got evasive when he asked for more details," Gibbs quoted from the report.

"I don't remember that. I told him what happened."

"I don't believe you," Gibbs said.

"I don't care. Sir," he added. "Why does it matter now?"

Gibbs pulled an eight by ten copy of Demmings' enlistment photo out of his file and turned it around for O'Sullivan to see. O'Sullivan glanced down at it, then back up at Gibbs.

"Who's that?" he asked.

"Culinary Specialist Second Class Leroy Demmings, formerly of the Big Stick," Gibbs supplied, watching O'Sullivan carefully. There was no recognition, of the photo or the name.

"Who's he?" O'Sullivan asked.

"He was assaulted, the night you claim you hit your head on your rack."

"So you think I did it?" O'Sullivan asked.

"Did you?"

"No," O'Sullivan said. There wasn't any affront there. Just a flat denial.

"He was attacked on shore leave. You were on leave that night, weren't you?" Gibbs asked.

"Probably," O'Sullivan said. "It was Spain, right?"

"Italy."

"Naples?" Gibbs nodded.

"Yeah, I was out. I was drinking. That's why I slipped. Rang my bell pretty good."

"And why didn't you tell the doctor that? There's nothing unusual about a Marine having too much to drink on liberty."

"I was afraid I'd get written up. I remember now. Doc was a bit of an arse."

"What happened while you were ashore that night?"

"I don't know," O'Sullivan shrugged. "It was a long time ago."

"But you remember you were drinking," Gibbs pushed a little.

"I was always drinking, back then," O'Sullivan said.

"You remember it was Naples, but don't remember what you did there?"

"We were in port a couple days. I had day watch. I went ashore most nights. I'm sorry I can't remember what I did one particular night of shore leave more three years ago." His voice held a tinge of sarcasm. Not much, just enough to notice.

"Tell me everything you remember, from the beginning," Gibbs said. O'Sullivan shook his head and sighed.

"I went out, I drank too much, I came back to the ship, I slipped getting into my rack, I fell into bed. The next morning, I was dizzy and nauseous, thought it was a hangover. When it hadn't cleared up by lunch, I figured I'd better get checked out. They kept me under observation for 24 hours…" O'Sullivan paused, his eyes narrowed, and a light went on.

"He was there, in the infirmary, the next day." O'Sullivan pointed at the picture. "He had… a broken arm?"

Gibbs nodded and let him remember.

"That's right. He was in a lot of pain, moaning and carrying on. He couldn't take morphine for some reason and I remember wishing they'd just shut him up, my head hurt so much. They airlifted him out the next morning, before I was cleared to return to duty. Scuttlebutt said he was beaten by a couple sailors, because he was…"

O'Sullivan looked up suddenly, and Gibbs saw the moment the young Marine put it together.

"That's what this is about?" he asked.

"Yes," Gibbs agreed. He wondered how many of the Roosevelt's sailors and Marines knew what had happened to Demmings and why, and had said nothing. For that matter, he wondered how many knew about the whole damn thing.

"I wasn't involved," O'Sullivan said.

"You know who was?" Gibbs asked. O'Sullivan fell silent.

"Who was it, Private?" Gibbs asked sharply.

"Why should I tell you?" O'Sullivan replied, his own voice rising a bit.

"Because it's the right thing to do," Gibbs said. That got him a huffing sound from O'Sullivan, who leaned back in his chair and crossed his thick arms over his chest.

"The right thing for who? There's nothing in it for me. And he's long gone."

Gibbs paused, collecting his thoughts. The kid was right. There was nothing in it for him. He had four months left on his sentence, then he'd reenter civilian life with the equivalent of a felony conviction, and no marketable skills.

"Why'd you join the Marines?" Gibbs asked. O'Sullivan frowned at the change of subject.

"To serve my country," O'Sullivan said.

"You could have done that in the Air Force. Why the Marine Corps?"

O'Sullivan shrugged. "It was the hardest," he said. "I wanted the challenge."

"And now?" Gibbs asked.

"Now what?"

"What do you want now?" he asked.

"I want to go home," O'Sullivan said. His voice held a note of pleading so faint Gibbs was certain O'Sullivan hadn't intended it to be heard.

"So you're done serving your country?" Gibbs asked, for the moment setting aside O'Sullivan's subconscious plea.

O'Sullivan huffed again. "I'm not serving my country anymore. I'm just marking time."

"Why?"

"You know why. Aggravated assault."

"What did you do?" Gibbs demanded.

"You know that, too. You've got my file." He gestured toward the closed folder on the table between them.

"The file says you tried to kill your bunkmate," Gibbs goaded him.

"I did not," O'Sullivan said firmly.

"Attempted murder of a fellow Marine. What did he do, sleep with your wife?"

O'Sullivan stood suddenly, his chair falling backwards with a crash. He planted his hands in the middle of the table and got in Gibbs' face, looming over him. Gibbs squared his feet underneath himself, ready to move if he had to, but didn't otherwise react.

"I did not try to kill Jack," he said fiercely.

Gibbs looked up at O'Sullivan and with a tone of command in his voice said "Sit down, Marine."

O'Sullivan glared at him from a foot away. Gibbs held his stare, eyes never wavering, precisely aware of the other man's body language. He was watching for any sign O'Sullivan was about to make another move. He silently counted. Five, seven…

At ten count, he spoke again, his voice no louder. "I said: Sit. Down."

Another five seconds passed before O'Sullivan pushed himself upright and took a step back. The two men's eyes stayed locked for a second longer before O'Sullivan finally gave it up. He broke away, righted his chair and threw himself into it.

"I did not try to kill Jack," O'Sullivan repeated, his voice tight. Gibbs watched as he visibly struggled to get his temper in check.

"Tell me about it," Gibbs said. He intentionally softened his voice and demeanor, leaning forward over the table in a posture of eager listening. The big Marine didn't reply.

"Come on, O'Sullivan. It can't hurt anything. Double jeopardy has attached. It doesn't matter what you say, they can't try you twice."

O'Sullivan took a deep breath, held it for a second, then blew it out hard. "He was my best friend. We joined the Corps together, worked together, used to go drinking together all the time. A buddy, you know? The kind I knew I'd always be able to count on."

"So what happened that night?" Gibbs asked.

"We were just back from Kuwait, on three days' liberty in Norfolk before returning to Lejeune. It was the second night. We'd been drinking hard, for hours. There was this girl Jack had been chatting up. He'd been bragging about how good he was at picking up the girls. He bet me a hundred bucks he could talk any single girl I pointed out into having sex with him. Like in that movie, Top Gun, you know?"

Gibbs gave an encouraging nod. This was the easy part of the story.

"He was doing really good. She'd agreed to go to the motel with him, and I was about to lose the bet. He had to go to the head before they left, so I decided to screw with him a little, try to even the odds. It was stupid." O'Sullivan stopped.

"What'd you do?" Gibbs asked.

"I told the girl he was married, with four kids."

"Was he?"

"Hell no. He was as available as they come. Didn't even have a girl back home. But when he got back, the girl threw her drink in his face and stormed out. I couldn't stop laughing. He got really pissed. It was the booze."

O'Sullivan stopped again, and Gibbs could sense the pain he was feeling. Gibbs had been there himself, reliving his role in tragic events, obsessing over what he might have done different or better that might have changed things. He felt a quick stab of pain in his temple and hoped it wasn't the headache trying to return. O'Sullivan went on.

"We argued. He took a swing at me. We started to fight. I hit him hard and he fell over a bar stool, hit his head on the floor. Hard. It knocked him out, but only for a minute. That was it. He came around, he apologized for starting the fight, we had another beer. He was a little unstable, but we'd been drinking, and I didn't think anything of it. We carried each other back to the motel we were staying in and crashed. The next day, I couldn't wake him up. Doctor said he was bleeding inside his head all night."

O'Sullivan took another deep breath. "He had emergency surgery at Portsmouth that afternoon. It didn't help. He never woke up. His family took him off life support about two weeks later, but he didn't die. His brain stem doesn't know he's dead."

"Sounds like an accident to me," Gibbs said. "Yet you plead to aggravated assault. An intentional act of violence causing great bodily harm."

The young Marine shrugged. "It was my fault. If I hadn't hit him, or if I'd called for help right away, he'd still be alive."

"You couldn't have known that."

"I should have thought of it. He lost consciousness. He needed to be monitored closely, and I knew that, from before. I had the training, I just wasn't thinking. I was too drunk. But being drunk doesn't excuse it. His death was my fault. So I plead guilty."

"If you believed that, why not plead to attempted murder?" Gibbs asked. He wanted to see how real this kid's feeling of responsibility really was. It might help, later. There was a long pause before O'Sullivan finally answered, reluctantly, Gibbs thought.

"Because of my wife."

"What about her?" Gibbs asked.

"She wasn't well. Even before this. I needed to get home as quick as I could. At the time I was four years into a six year hitch, and wasn't planning on reenlisting. If I'd been found guilty of attempted murder, I'd have spent eight to twelve in a civilian prison. I didn't think my wife would last that long. Turns out I was right."

"Where'd she go?" Gibbs asked.

"Why are you asking, Special Agent Gibbs?" O'Sullivan said, suddenly seeming to realize this had nothing to do with why he'd been brought here. Gibbs had been wondering how much further he'd go without asking the obvious.

"I want to know who assaulted Petty Officer Demmings. You want to go home. We might be able to come to some arrangement, but I need to know who I'm dealing with."

O'Sullivan digested that. "What can you do for me?"

This time it was Gibbs who shrugged. "Don't know yet. I'll have to talk to some people. What happened to your wife?"

"She died," O'Sullivan said. Gibbs had guessed that much, based on his earlier lie about divorce.

"How?" he asked. O'Sullivan looked down at his hands for a moment, then straightened and caught Gibbs' eye again.

"She killed herself with the gun I gave her to protect them while I was away. She tried to take my little girl with her, but Chloe survived."

Gibbs let that sit, his face not showing the surprise or the sudden compassion he felt. This kid had certainly been through plenty.

"Do you know who assaulted Petty Officer Demmings?"

"I know who claims to have done it," O'Sullivan said.

"You have a name?"

"Yes," O'Sullivan said.

"You know details?"

"Some."

"You know why it was done?"

This time, a pause before he spoke. "Yes."

"And you know there were others?"

"I heard rumors."

"You going to tell me?" Gibbs asked.

"If your offer's good," O'Sullivan said. Gibbs considered him for a moment. He could probably make O'Sullivan tell him what he wanted to know without giving him anything in return. But if this kid was really what he seemed to be on the surface, Gibbs wanted to help him out. If he could.

"Did you have anything to do with the attack on Petty Officer Demmings?"

"No, sir," O'Sullivan said emphatically, and Gibbs believed him.

"Nothing to do with any of it?"

"No sir," O'Sullivan repeated.

"Alright. Stand by. I'll see what I can do."

Gibbs stood and picked up the files. He left the room without another word. As he closed the door behind himself, Acosta came out of observation.

"That's not in his file," Acosta said without preamble. "About the wife. We knew she was gone, but there's nothing in there about suicide or attempted murder."

"You think he's lying?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Acosta said without hesitation.

"You any good with computers?" Gibbs asked.

"I can hold my own," Acosta said with a frown. "Why?"

"My computer guy is running down some leads, and I need this checked out. Can you do it?"

"Why does it not surprise me, Gunny, that you and computers don't get along?" Acosta grinned.

"We get along just fine," Gibbs said with a wry smile. "I leave them alone, they leave me alone. Can you help me out, or not?"

"Sure. That door locked?" Acosta asked, indicating the door to interrogation.

"Can't be opened from the inside. Tech locks it automatically when we leave."

"Fair enough. Show me the way."

They went up to the squad room where Gibbs showed Acosta to his desk and entered the password necessary to unlock his computer.

"Find what you can about the wife and daughter, and whatever else there is on his buddy. I want to know what kind of fight I'm going to have if I try to get him home. I'm going for coffee. Want some?"

"Sure," Acosta said. "Black."

"Is there any other way?" Gibbs said. He picked up the remote for the plasma and clicked it on, showing Acosta the view of O'Sullivan in interrogation. The big Marine was staring at the mirrored glass. He had not returned to his writing. After watching him a moment, Gibbs headed out.

* * *

By the time Gibbs returned, Acosta was done.

"He wasn't lying," Acosta said as Gibbs handed him a cup of dark roast. Acosta took a sip and smiled. "Good coffee."

"Only the best. What'd you find?" He perched on the edge of DiNozzo's empty desk.

"About three weeks after O'Sullivan's sentencing, his wife, Rachel Marie Sharpton – she never took his name – age 24, shot their four-year-old daughter Chloe in the head before doing the same to herself. They lived in base housing at Camp Lejeune, and the neighbors were wakened by the shots just after 3 a.m. MPs found the wife dead, the daughter wounded but still breathing. The little girl was in her bed, and investigators figured the mother didn't want to wake her. Because of that, the angle was bad and the bullet deflected, ran around the inside of the skull. There was some brain damage." Gibbs shook his head.

"Any warning signs?" he asked.

"In hindsight? Probably. She was on some pretty high-end anti-depressants, prescriptions filled at an off-base pharmacy. She went to weekly sessions with a therapist, again off-base. Frequent domestic calls when O'Sullivan was on base, always alcohol-related, always mutual combat. But she was functioning. Worked part-time in the base library, kept the house in order, the daughter was always on time to school, always properly dressed, no allegations of abuse or neglect. One prior suicide attempt in high school, pills, but it was chalked up to teenage passions."

"How's the girl doing?" Gibbs asked.

"Initially, doctors thought she'd be deaf, blind, and paralyzed. But she started to come around within a few days. She recovered her vision and she's regaining her motor skills. The deafness is likely permanent, and she's going to need long-term rehab services, but her doctor says she's making amazing progress."

"She being treated at the base hospital?"

"No. Children's Hospital Orange County, in Southern California. It's where his parents live. Her treatment is paid through dependents' health care. She'll lose her coverage when O'Sullivan's discharged later this year."

"Has he seen her?" Gibbs asked. He could only imagine the pain O'Sullivan must be dealing with every day, knowing he couldn't be with his little girl when she needed him, and knowing her recovery was going to depend on the whim of welfare medicine because of his screw up. If it were Gibbs, he likely wouldn't be handling it as well. Even now, 18 years later, the pain of his failure to protect his own wife and daughter was sharp and unrelenting.

"No. We didn't know anything about it. He's never made a request for compassionate leave. He uses his weekly phone allowance to call his parents. The only mail he sends out or accepts is to them and his daughter."

"Accepts?" Gibbs asked.

"The wife's family occasionally sends him something. He always returns it to sender, unopened."

"If it happened on base, why didn't you know about it? The report should have been attached to his SRB. We pulled it, and there was nothing."

"Best I can tell, there's been no upload since he was confined. The report was linked to his master SRB, but since we got him, nothing has been added to the copy we have." Acosta made a 'what can you do' gesture. "Once they're with us, we're usually the only people adding things to their files. The only reason we knew the wife was out of the picture was because his DoD primary next of kin information was updated from the wife to the parents. Your guy must have pulled our copy, figuring it would be most recent. And ordinarily, he'd have been right."

"She," Gibbs corrected. "What about O'Sullivan's buddy?"

"Corporal John Whitney. Went by Jack. They joined on the buddy program, shared duty stations and away billets, moved through the ranks together. Couple of reports of physical altercations between them, always after drinking, never anything serious."

"Until that night," Gibbs said.

"Until that night," Acosta agreed. "There was never any indication that O'Sullivan had any motive to injure Whitney. It looks like it was just one of those stupid things that happens sometimes."

"What about Whitney's family? What do they say?" Gibbs asked.

"His parents and an older sister. He wasn't married. They were naturally angry at first, but they came around. They chose not to speak at the sentencing, didn't file a victim impact statement. Mrs. Whitney sent O'Sullivan two letters early on. He accepted them, but never responded."

Gibbs nodded, and the two men fell silent.

"What do you think you can do for him, Gunny?" Acosta asked. "He was properly convicted of a crime that requires a discharge other than honorable. Anything other than him staying in the Corps – or an honorable discharge – means his daughter loses her benefits. It sucks, but there's really nothing to be done."

"There might be. I have to make some calls." He turned and glanced at the plasma, which showed that O'Sullivan was staring at the paper in front of himself, pen in hand, but not writing.

"You ever read anything he writes?" Gibbs asked.

"Every couple of days," Acosta said. "His mail is censored both ways. Stupid rule, but what can you do?"

"Is he any good?"

"Very. Don't tell anyone, but I occasionally read one of his stories over the phone to my youngest boy. He's seven, hyper as a chipmunk on speed, and he sits still to hear the whole thing, every time. He loves it."

Gibbs considered that. Maybe there was something there.

* * *

to be continued...

Feedback always welcome. If you're liking something, I'd love to hear it. If you don't like something, I'd love to hear that, too.


	20. Part 19

**One Less - Part 19**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Tony spent a restless night aboard the Roosevelt, remembering all the things he hated about being afloat. The raging storm rocked the big ship in her moorings, throwing up a constant metal-on-metal clanging from her anchor lines. Every joint in the thousand-foot-long aircraft carrier creaked and groaned as she rode the wake. Even deep inside her hull, Tony was kept awake by the noise and the uneven motion.

Fredrick was already asleep and snoring slightly when Tony returned from talking with Holbrook. He slept like the dead all night. Every time Tony rolled over and peered down from the upper rack, he saw Fredrick lying on his left side facing the back of the compartment, feet pressed against one end of the space, his arms over his head and not quite touching the other. He'd lived here, in this room, for almost 10 years, and was obviously in his comfort zone despite the presence of a stranger. DiNozzo was almost sorry it was all about to end for him. Of course, if he was involved in this thing, he deserved to lose his career and he'd be lucky if he managed to stay out of prison.

DiNozzo used more than his share of hot water in the junior officers' showers the next morning, trying to wake up. He had to get moving on this thing, or he was going to end up afloat again, for real. As he leaned his head against the shower wall and let the water pour down his back, DiNozzo tried to come up with something.

"Hey DiNardo, you sleep alright?" came a voice through the steam. DiNozzo opened his eyes and saw Fredrick entering the shower.

"Like a baby," DiNozzo lied. He stood upright and stuck his face under the spray. The water had a slightly metallic taste. The result of too much time in holding tanks, DiNozzo knew.

"You were up awfully late," Fredrick said. He adjusted the taps on the shower one down from Tony.

"Looking for some action," DiNozzo said.

"Not much of that around here after dark," Fredrick said. DiNozzo searched for something to say about that.

"So I noticed," he said after a second. He poured some shampoo into his hand and soaped up his hair. He had a thought. "I figured there'd at least be a poker game somewhere."

"Not while we're in port," Frederick said. "We usually let it slide when we're at sea, if the stakes aren't too high, but there's too many eyes on us here."

"Too bad." Tony rinsed his head. Beside him, Fredrick was already almost done, doing proud the tradition of a Navy shower.

"You got anything planned for today?" DiNozzo asked.

"Paperwork, some cases to file. I've got a meet with JAG this afternoon. You?"

"More files to review." Tony finished up, intending to be ready to head for breakfast with Fredrick.

"You haven't found what you're looking for yet?" Fredrick asked, and spun the faucet off.

"Not looking for anything," Tony said. Fredrick huffed.

"Right," he said. Fredrick didn't seem upset, merely disbelieving. He grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his hips. Tony shut off his own water and followed the agent afloat into the locker room. They dressed in silence.

"So what do you think I'm looking for?" Tony asked as they headed for the mess. Fredrick shook his head.

"Something to cause me grief. I think that bastard Gibbs has got a hard-on for me because I didn't file the missing report on Ferrara on Sunday. Funny, I don't remember seeing his name anywhere in my chain of command. He wasn't here, and hindsight is always perfect. Like the man's never made a mistake." Fredrick's tone was tight. He was annoyed, but keeping it under control as they moved through the passageways.

"So why didn't you?" DiNozzo asked, with what he hoped was a tone of off-hand curiosity. "File the report," DiNozzo continued when Fredrick looked confused.

Fredrick sighed. "I don't know. I've been asking myself that since he turned up dead." They joined the line for trays.

They held off on further conversation until they had gathered their food and were seated across from each other at one end of a long table. The mess was busy, but not crowded. Breakfast time was more casual than the other meals on ship: with night watches ending and day ones beginning at varied times, people came and went steadily through the four-hour offering. Lunch, dinner, and third shift meal stayed out only two hours each. Even so, there was a buzzing of dozens of conversations bouncing off the metal walls, making the big room sound a lot like a huge cocktail party. No one's voice particularly stood out, and you could almost guarantee that no one would notice what you were saying, as long as you kept your voice down and chose your words carefully.

"He wasn't happy, you know," Fredrick said as he forked a piece of sausage into his mouth.

"No?" Tony said. He was ready to follow this wherever it went.

"He fought pretty hard to come back after his accident, and for awhile it was good. But lately, I think he'd been regretting it." Fredrick stopped, considered for a second, then dug into his scrambled eggs.

"You knew him?" DiNozzo asked. That wasn't the impression they'd gotten.

"Not really. It was just, word around, you know? Capt. McNally only brought him into the executive office because the Navy wasn't going to let him back otherwise and the Captain had history with the family. Scuttlebutt had it that the kid was getting tired of being a secretary. When he didn't come back from liberty, I figured he just walked away."

Tony took another bite. "Anything more than scuttlebutt to back that up?" When Ferrara looked at him strangely, Tony hastily added: "If Gibbs or someone manages to get an investigation launched, they're going to ask."

"When I talked to the brother on Sunday, it seemed like he was hiding something. With what I'd heard about the kid, and knowing he wasn't technically on duty… I don't know. Maybe Gibbs is right. Maybe I should have filed the report sooner."

"So what was the brother hiding?" Tony asked.

"I can guess, but I haven't had a chance to interview him again. Gibbs took over the investigation, and the players are off limits." Fredrick stabbed at a sausage with a little more than necessary force.

"Sounds like Gibbs doesn't have any real reason to complain," Tony said. "I mean, it's your ship, your people. You've been here a long time. You knew the victim by reputation, and you didn't think it warranted a missing person's report so soon."

"Exactly," Fredrick said, but he didn't sound too confident. "I've been on this damn carrier almost 10 years. And now I've got the Skipper pissed at me over some…" he stopped.

"What?" Tony asked. Fredrick looked around, making sure no one was paying them particular attention. He leaned in and spoke softly.

"You know the word, 'ricchione'?"

Tony choked on his eggs, barely managing to get a hand up to catch the bite he'd been chewing. He turned it into a laugh and popped the food back into his mouth.

"Yeah, I know it. You sure?" The word was Italian, a derogatory term for a homosexual. That answers that, DiNozzo thought.

"Yeah."

"Wow. And the Captain kept him in the Navy? He must not have known."

"I'm sure he didn't," Fredrick said.

"So how'd you find out?" DiNozzo asked. Here it was.

"Word around. I did a little checking. It wasn't hard to confirm, once you know."

"You going to tell Gibbs?" Tony asked.

"Why would I?" Fredrick asked.

"Might make a difference in the direction of his investigation if he knew," Tony suggested.

"It might. But if he's such a hotshot, he'll figure it out," Fredrick said. "It's not like he's asking me what I know." He used a piece of toast to clean up his plate.

Tony ate the last of his eggs as he considered his next move. What had Gibbs said, aggressively straight, moderately homophobic, slightly offended at the idea of gays serving in the military?

"The Navy's probably better off without him anyway," Tony said. Fredrick glanced up at him and blinked in surprise. It obviously wasn't what Fredrick had expected him to say.

"I mean, there's a reason policy says they can't be in the service, right?" he backpedaled just a little. He didn't know if Fredrick's startled look had been because Tony had hit the target or was so far off mark as to be way out in left field.

"I guess," Fredrick said. "But despite… that… he wasn't a bad kid, really. A little messed up, making bad choices, obviously. Probably could have used some time away. I really thought he just decided he'd had enough."

Fredrick shook his head, then stood and gathered his tray. "I'm going in. You coming?"

"Yup." Tony moved to follow.

* * *

Gibbs's first call was to NCIS's liaison at the Judge Advocate General's office next door. JAG was where the Navy's lawyers did their business: protecting Navy interests against outside legal challenges, and acting as both prosecution and defense when active-duty members of the Navy and Marine Corps ran afoul of the law. Every case that NCIS prepared was run past the liaison officer and checked for water-tightness before a decision on prosecution was made. The current liaison was Will Taylor, one of the few lawyers Gibbs didn't dismiss on spec. The man had been a Marine in Gibbs' company during the early 80s. When the Marine Headquarters in Beirut was bombed in 1983 – killing 220 Marines and 21 others in a single attack – Taylor had had enough. He decided not to reup when his enlistment ended the next year. Gibbs hadn't heard from him again until he'd shown up at the Navy Yard a few years ago, law degree in hand, a Naval reservist who'd taken a full-time civilian job with JAG. They weren't exactly friends, but Gibbs knew he could trust Taylor. Gibbs asked him to pull O'Sullivan's case file and put together a legal opinion on why it had gone down the way it did.

Next he called in a favor at JAG itself. The guy there wasn't happy that Gibbs wanted him to see about potentially overturning a closed case, but after Gibbs told him they'd be even after this – if he found something – he said he'd see what he could do.

Gibbs' third call was to an old friend. They made small talk, exchanged the obligatory insults, then got to the point of the call. Gibbs explained the situation, then asked the friend if he could help. Sure he could. He'd make some calls, do some checking, see what he could confirm. There were a couple of ways he could make it work, one best option and a couple of backups. He'd make the arrangements and call back within the hour.

Will Taylor appeared in the squad room 20 minutes after Gibbs called him. After introducing Acosta, Gibbs asked him what he'd found.

"It doesn't look like it was supposed to be anything big. The case agent recommended JAG treat it as a simple fight. No prosecution, penalty to be determined at Captain's Mast."

"So what happened?" Gibbs asked.

"The Abu Ghraib scandal changed things for all of us," Taylor said. He leaned back against McGee's empty desk. "When the accused were returned to their home bases, different divisions of JAG were handling the cases, making conflicting decisions on who to prosecute and what to charge. Some of the bit players were getting felony charges and BCD's. Some people who should have gone down hard were never even looked at. SecDef was taking a lot of heat, so he put out a standing order to all military justice units late in 2003: Follow the letter of the UCMJ in all prosecution decisions until further notice. It caught a lot of people who might have otherwise skated. For better or for worse.

"Things eventually balanced out, and the new guy rescinded the order, but it was left to individual commands to decide where to go from there. Some backed way off, some stayed the course. Most prosecute according to the spirit of the law with sole discretion to the Officer in Charge. Norfolk is one of those still following the letter of the law in virtually every case."

"And the letter of the law says battery leading to serious injury, intentional or not, gets felony charges," Gibbs summed up.

"Yup."

"Why didn't I hear about the policy change?" Gibbs asked.

"Easy, Gibbs," Taylor said with a laugh. "Everyone you send to JAG for prosecution is guilty as sin with the evidence to back it up. You don't send them borderline cases where they have to decide whether or not to prosecute. If there's any discretion exercised, it gets done at your level."

Gibbs nodded, conceding the point. "So who's going to complain if he gets an appeal, or a sentence reduction?"

"Probably no one. Maybe the victim's family, but likely not. Case file says they declined the standard invitation to speak at sentencing. They believed it was an accident."

"What about at the Norfolk office?"

"First you're going to have to find someone willing to take a second look at a closed case," Taylor said.

"Done," Gibbs said. Taylor looked at him curiously, then huffed a small laugh.

"Of course it is. I suppose as long as the case wasn't anyone's baby, they're not going to object too much. A win is a win. I wouldn't suggest trying to challenge it on grounds of incompetent counsel, and do your best to avoid getting anyone's back up. In other words, send a diplomat, don't do it yourself."

Gibbs gave him a sarcastic smile, and Taylor grinned.

"Seriously, your best bet is probably to seek a judicial intervention on compassionate grounds. If you can get the victim's family to speak on his behalf, you could probably pull off an early discharge if nothing else."

"Alright. Thanks."

"Anytime," Taylor said and went back to his own office.

"So what now?" Acosta asked when he was gone.

Gibbs thought about it. "Does O'Sullivan trust you?" he asked.

Acosta shrugged. "I suppose. I don't know, really."

"Have you given him any reason not to trust you?" Gibbs said, and watched Acosta as he thought of his answer.

"No," the Marine said after several seconds. Gibbs wasn't sure if Acosta's hesitation had been because he was making something up or just thinking his answer through, so he asked the question another way.

"You treat him alright?"

Acosta cocked his head and looked at Gibbs curiously.

"I treat him fair. Show him respect, give him the privileges he earns. Cut him slack where I can." Acosta gave a half smile. "Just like you taught me. Why?"

"Can you convince him to trust me?" Gibbs asked.

"I can try. But again, why?"

"This case is dragging out too long. I need him to give me what I want now and trust that I'll do what I can for him later."

Acosta thought about that, then shook his head.

"I don't know, Gunny. He doesn't have much left to lose, and he probably sees this as his one shot at bargaining for something better. He's not likely to give it up without a guarantee." Acosta paused. "But I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Gibbs ushered Acosta into interrogation ahead of him. O'Sullivan had returned to his writing. When the door opened, he glanced up, saw who it was, and in one smooth move put his pen down, stood at attention, and snapped off a salute.

"At ease, Marine," Acosta said and before O'Sullivan could get to parade rest, followed it up with: "Have a seat." O'Sullivan sat, folded his hands in front of himself and watched attentively as Gibbs took the chair across from him and Acosta pulled a third chair up to the end of the table. Gibbs was impressed with the difference in O'Sullivan's responses between when Gibbs had entered the first time and when Acosta entered now. O'Sullivan clearly knew who had the power to make his life better and who didn't.

"Your daughter. How's she doing?" Gibbs asked. O'Sullivan glanced at Acosta, then back at Gibbs.

"Better than the doctors expected, sir. She's a fighter," O'Sullivan said. Gibbs decided not to comment on his return to the honorific. It was the required address for prisoners when speaking to civilians and anyone in authority over them, and O'Sullivan would have no way of knowing that Acosta had earlier heard Gibbs release him from the requirement.

"She's at CHOC?" Gibbs said.

"Yes, sir." If O'Sullivan was surprised Gibbs knew the acronym by which Children's Hospital Orange County was known nationwide, he didn't show it.

"Good hospital," Gibbs said.

"Yes sir," O'Sullivan said again.

"Why's she there?" Gibbs asked, then on seeing O'Sullivan's confusion, elaborated: "Why not Lejeune, or here at National?"

"CHOC's near my parents' house, so they can be with her."

"Makes sense," Gibbs said, like he didn't know that already. "What's going to happen to her once you're discharged?"

Again, the glance at Acosta first. "I've got a plan," he said.

"Mind sharing?"

"I'd rather not. I can't see how that's any of the Navy's business."

Gibbs nodded. "Fair enough. The way I see it, there's only a couple of possibilities anyway: You find a job with benefits, which isn't likely to happen. Not a lot of call for a small arms specialist with a felony conviction. Or, you sign her up for welfare medicine, let the state decide what treatment she gets and where. But I hear they're kind of strapped for cash right now, so they're not likely to offer her anything more than the minimum."

Gibbs paused for a second, watching O'Sullivan across the table. The young Marine was stone-faced.

"I suppose you could give her up for adoption, let some rich family with great insurance raise her." That got a reaction. O'Sullivan's jaw clenched and his knuckles turned white. But he didn't speak. Gibbs continued.

"Maybe your parents can adopt her. They still work. If they're her legal parents, she can get on their health plan. Of course, they won't be working for many more years. And even then, you'd have to give up all parental rights, meaning you'd have no further legal say in her future."

"Is there a point to this, Sir?" O'Sullivan interrupted.

"Or, there's another option," Gibbs continued without answering him. "You can tell me everything I want to know right now, answer my questions truthfully and hold nothing back, and I'll see to it that your daughter gets all the care she needs for as long as she needs it, at no cost to you."

At the end of the table, Acosta's eyes widened. Across from Gibbs, O'Sullivan's face showed a rapidly shifting range of emotion: confusion, suspicion, cautious hope. There were several moments of silence before O'Sullivan finally spoke.

"How can you do that?" he asked softly.

"I called in a favor," Gibbs said. "You give me what I want and Chloe will get the treatment she needs to reach her full potential."

Another long pause. "You'd do that? For a simple assault that's already more than three years gone?"

"And for all the others," Gibbs said.

"I don't know anything about the others," O'Sullivan said. "I mean, I only know what I've heard, I don't know anything first hand."

"I think you know enough. But if you really don't, it's my loss."

Gibbs could see O'Sullivan really wanted to believe. The young Marine searched Gibbs' face. He looked at Acosta. He looked down at his hands. He squeezed the knuckles of each hand with the other, then looked up sharply.

"What if I can't give you what you want? If I tell you everything I know and it's not enough? How do I know you're not making this all up, just to get me to talk?"

"Tadhg," Acosta said quietly. He pronounced it like 'tiger' without the 'er' and Gibbs filed that away for future reference. O'Sullivan turned to look at Acosta. Gibbs could see the fear of hope in O'Sullivan's eyes.

"I know him. You can trust him. His word is good. If he says it, he'll do it."

Silence filled the small room. Gibbs let it build.

"Why?" O'Sullivan asked finally. He looked back at Gibbs, and continued. "I'm government property. Surplus government property. You've got all the power. You could force me to talk and give me nothing in return. So why are doing this for me? For my little girl? You don't even know us."

Gibbs considered his answer. He knew exactly where the truth lay: Like O'Sullivan's daughter, his own little girl had been the victim of something that had nothing to do with her. Kelly had been killed because her mother wanted to do the right thing, to fulfill her duty as a citizen and the wife of a United States Marine. Shannon had been trying to set a good example for their daughter, and it had cost both their lives. Gibbs hadn't been there to save them. He knew the pain O'Sullivan was feeling. He'd felt it himself, day in and day out for 18 years. He knew the root of his soft spot for kids was that he had this secret, wild hope that maybe by helping someone else's child, he could ease the pain of losing his own.

But as much as Gibbs knew the truth of that, he also knew he would never share it. That truth was his alone.

"I have my reasons. You gonna make the deal, or not? I need to get moving on this."

O'Sullivan stared at him as if trying to decide whether or not to trust him. With one more glance at Acosta – which was met with a small nod – he agreed.

* * *

to be continued...


	21. Part 20

****This is a repost of the same chapter as previously posted, to correct title. No other changes have been made.****

Note: This is the second part to be posted tonight. So if you're reading this as it's posted, please be sure you read Part 19 first. Wouldn't want you to miss anything...

* * *

**One Less - Part 20**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

By the time O'Sullivan was done telling his story, McGee and Ziva were back.

"What'd you find?" Gibbs asked as he dropped into his chair. He directed Acosta to DiNozzo's desk. Before speaking, McGee glanced at Acosta, then back at Gibbs.

"He's okay," Gibbs said, and McGee nodded.

"Bauer Guns and Ammo in Arlington sold six stun grenade reloads to a pair of uniformed sailors two days ago."

"Names?" Gibbs said.

"None. The owner is retired Navy, said they sold him a story about using the flash-bangs as part of a hazing, and needing to get them back together before their CO noticed they were gone. He didn't check ID. There's security footage, but it's not much. No faces. We brought it back to Abby anyway."

"What else?" Gibbs asked.

"It took a little persuasion," Ziva said, "but he eventually gave us a reasonable description of the sailors and said he would likely recognize them if he saw them again. He remembered they were both Petty Officers First Class. They came in between 5:00 and 5:30 p.m. Monday night, bought only the reload kits, and paid cash."

"You show him Nicky's sketches?" Gibbs asked.

"He said one of them looked sort of familiar. But he couldn't say for sure it was him," McGee said. "Besides, Nicky saw Marines, right?"

"He says he did. Here." Gibbs wrote a name on a post-it note and held it out to McGee.

"Who is it?" McGee asked, reading the name. PO2 Jeffrey Hartman.

"Sailor from the Big Stick who was bragging about being involved in the attack on Demmings. Find him."

"On it," McGee said. Like the good subordinate he was, he didn't ask where Gibbs had gotten the name, but his curiosity was clear.

Gibbs waited while McGee did his thing. O'Sullivan had given him the name, and had told them what he knew of the conspiracy. It wasn't widely known on the ship, he said, but he knew of a couple others who were aware that someone was targeting gay sailors and Marines. During a poker game a few weeks after Demmings' attack, Hartman had started talking about it, bragging to O'Sullivan and three sailors at the table about how he and his compadres had taken care of the fag. Apparently O'Sullivan's reaction had passed him through some test, because a few days later Hartman asked O'Sullivan if he wanted to come along next time he went on a mission. That's what Hartman had called it, a mission. O'Sullivan had refused, for a variety of reasons, he claimed. Chief among them that when he was sober, he wasn't much of a fighter. He'd freely admitted that the idea of men in love repulsed him, and that he thought the Navy was right to keep them out. After all, they lived in pretty tight quarters in the Corps, and how would it be if on top of everything else, you had to worry about the guy next to you trying to make a move on you? Nonetheless, he insisted that if he found out one of his fellow service men was gay, he'd turn him in, not injure him to force him out. Why take the personal risk? Don't ask, don't tell was working just fine. If it became known a guy was gay, it was because he acted in a way that let someone know. If no one knew, it meant they weren't telling, weren't making a move on anyone, and there was no problem.

As much as Gibbs disagreed with the sentiment, he supposed O'Sullivan had a point. If these sailors hadn't somehow let it be known they were gay, they wouldn't have become targets. Having to keep such a secret in order to serve your country was wrong, but these guys knew the stakes going in. Maybe that's where the investigation should be focusing. What mistake had all these guys made that had exposed them?

O'Sullivan had supplied the names of the three others at the poker game plus one other Marine in his unit that he was certain knew about the attacks. He was pretty sure none of the Marines were involved, but didn't know about the sailors who'd been at the game with him. Hartman might have invited them, too. O'Sullivan also offered his best guess on who might have gone with Hartman the night of Demmings' attack.

Gibbs asked him about the other victims. O'Sullivan only knew specifics on the attack on Major Ortiz, who had been in his Expeditionary Unit. Otherwise, it had all been rumors and stories whispered around poker tables and bragged about at bars.

O'Sullivan said the ship had been abuzz about Ortiz's disappearance. A Marine Major not returning from shore leave was big news. Rumors began circulating immediately, and when the ship sailed without him, everyone had something to say about it. The Marines aboard took it hardest. Their creed dictated that they never leave a man behind. But the relief troops and supplies the Roosevelt was bringing to Iraq were desperately needed, and they'd already been delayed by bad weather across the Atlantic. The stop in Dubai was to off-load equipment which would be taken inland to small bases throughout that part of the Gulf, and to give the personnel aboard a last chance at liberty before their six-month cruise. They'd originally been scheduled to be in port a week. The extended crossing shortened it to a planned three days. Ortiz's disappearance pushed it to five. When the Captain decided they had no choice but to sail on, he'd assigned a squad of Marine MPs to stay behind and coordinate the search. It helped ease Marine minds a little, but not much.

When word came two days later that Ortiz had been found, it didn't take long for the details of the condition he'd been found in to spread throughout the ship. But despite widespread rumors that he'd been attacked by Navy personnel because he was gay, there was no hint of who might have done it.

When pressed on who could be leading the conspiracy, O'Sullivan had denied knowledge, and Gibbs believed him. Considering what Gibbs was promising him, O'Sullivan clearly wanted to give up everything he knew.

"Um, Gibbs?" McGee called, and Gibbs focused on him.

"He's dead," McGee said.

"What?" Gibbs said.

"Petty Officer Jeffrey Hartman was killed by an IED outside Baghdad in March of 2008."

"Damn it," Gibbs said, seeing their best lead disappear.

"Hartman?" Ziva said from her desk. Gibbs turned to her. "I think…" she sorted through the papers in front of her until she found a particular note.

"Jeffrey Hartman was the name of the other person who came into the infirmary with a head injury following Petty Officer Demmings' attack."

"Did he stay?" Gibbs asked. He wondered, if Hartman had spent time in the infirmary at the same time as O'Sullivan, why the big Marine hadn't mentioned that.

Ziva searched for an answer. "No. He was examined by the ship's physician with negative significant findings. Since he was not on duty, he requested and was allowed to return to his berth to be monitored by another sailor."

"What about the witness?" McGee asked.

"Witness?" Ziva said.

"Didn't you say last night that that injury was on duty and witnessed?" McGee said. "If the injury was actually from the attack on Demmings, then the witness must have lied. Maybe he was involved."

"That's good thinking, McGee," Gibbs said, and wondered why he hadn't thought of it first. Ziva did some more searching.

"The witness was a Petty Officer Sasha Radkoff."

"That's one of the sailors O'Sullivan thought might have gone with Hartman that night," Gibbs said with a hint of satisfaction. Finally, solid connections. "Where is he?"

"He's currently at NAS Oceana. A member of…" she paused and looked up at Gibbs. "The Naval Special Warfare Development Group. Isn't that the same unit Lt. Hutchinson was a part of?"

"Same one," Gibbs agreed with a nod. "He a SEAL?"

"No. A Special Warfare Combatant Craft Crewman," Ziva said.

"A Swick," Gibbs said, then explained. "A boat guy. That's what we call them. Are they on station?"

Ziva checked. "They are."

"Get him down here. Now. McGee, run these names." He handed McGee the other names O'Sullivan had offered, then turned to Acosta, who'd been watching the interplay from DiNozzo's chair.

"Lunch?"

"Sure. What about O'Sullivan?"

"We'll bring something back." His cell rang in his pocket and Gibbs pulled it out, gesturing for Acosta to follow him. He spoke briefly to someone who was obviously a friend, at one point mentioning mentioned Chloe O'Sullivan's name, which made Acosta ask: "What was that?" after he hung up. They got on the elevator.

"An old friend. Retired Captain from Navy Medical. Currently U.S. medical director for Shriners International. They run a system of children's hospitals specializing in, among other things, neurological injury rehab. The care is free and available to any child who needs it."

"I wondered how you were going to pull that off," Acosta said.

"Helps to have friends in strategic places," Gibbs said. "It's set up so family can stay. Once he's discharged, he can be with her."

Acosta smiled. "That is great. He's a good kid, he deserves a break."

As they walked out of the building, Gibbs produced one of his business cards, and using his hand as a writing surface, wrote a name and number on the back. He put his pen back in his pocket and handed it to Acosta.

"When we get back, take him to the conference room and call this number. They'll talk to him about what's next."

They walked to the BX to check on Nicky. Gibbs found him and Gregor engaged in a near-silent game of chess across the sporting goods counter. Apparently, Nicky was pretty good. A glance at the board told Gibbs that much. He hadn't played the old man himself in many years, but when he used to play regularly, he considered himself successful if he could play Gregor to a draw. He'd never won a game in all their years of friendship. It looked like Nicky was holding his own. Gregor had waved Gibbs away when Gibbs suggested maybe Nicky might be ready to go to lunch, and Nicky hadn't even looked up, too busy studying the board. Gibbs left them to it.

They bought sandwiches and chips for five at the deli down the block from the headquarters building and brought them back to the squad room, picking up coffee on the way. Gibbs sent Acosta back to interrogation with his and O'Sullivan's share, took his own, and dealt out the rest to Ziva and McGee. It wasn't Gibbs' turn to buy, but with his late arrival and the leads his team had come up with today, he figured he owed them.

Ziva, who'd been on the phone when they returned, hung up and reported that she'd spoken to Petty Officer Radkoff's commanding officer. She'd told the man that Radkoff was a material witness to a crime they were investigating, and was urgently needed at the Navy Yard. The CO seemed concerned, but readily agreed to send Radkoff down forthwith.

Gibbs ate his sandwich and listened to Ziva and McGee chat as they ate their own. When it was just the two of them, their conversation was always more gentle than it was when DiNozzo was there to add spice to the mix. Each member of his team had their individual strengths, and weaknesses. Like any group of siblings left to their own devices, they sometimes exploited those weaknesses to play gotcha. Occasionally, Gibbs felt the need to intervene. More to save his own sanity than to stop them from hurting each other. But usually it just proved to him how right this group was. They wouldn't tease if they didn't care. And God help the fool who tried to hurt any one of them: their defense of one another, physically and emotionally, was where the true evidence of love was seen.

He knew that's what it was, at its heart. Like in the Marines, the members of his team were closer than family, and each would willingly go through the fire to save any of the others. He'd seen it himself, more times than he cared to remember. It was good, it was right, and sometimes he wondered how he'd gotten so damn lucky to be here in this place at this time with these people.

Gibbs forcibly steered his thoughts back to the matter at hand. His mind was full, with too much new information. They were making the right moves, he could feel it. But this thing was too broad, with too many players. Conspiracies always were. They were walking all around the edges of it, but what he needed to break this thing open was someone who'd actually been involved in at least one of the attacks. Someone who'd personally taken orders directly from whoever was at the top. Hopefully Radkoff would be able to tell them something.

Under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the statute of limitations on assault, even aggravated assault, was only three years. So anyone involved in attacks on the victims prior to that time had already gotten away with it. Eight victims that they knew of would never see direct justice. But there was no statute of limitations on murder. And under the theory of an ongoing conspiracy, they could charge the old crimes along with Ferrara's homicide, if they set it up right. But they needed proof that all the attacks were connected – not just random acts with common victim types – to show the conspiracy was ongoing.

If they did it right, they might even be able to charge murder on Ortiz's death. As Ducky had said, the initial attack had left Major Ortiz vulnerable, unable to prevent the second attack. A case could be made that but for the first attack, the second never would have happened. And if he hadn't been so badly wounded, he wouldn't have been left to die uncared for.

But first they needed a damn suspect. Something they were a little short on just now. If it was Fredrick, DiNozzo needed to find out, soon. Gibbs wasn't actually planning on letting Tony sail off on the aircraft carrier when it left on Saturday. But that meant they only had two more days to pull this thing together.

"You finish cross-referencing everything yet, McGee?" Gibbs asked suddenly, breaking into his team's conversations.

"Uh, I haven't finished building the program yet," McGee said. He glanced at his half-finished sandwich and Gibbs backed off. A little.

"When you're done eating," he said and McGee nodded gratefully. A thought occurred.

"Before you get back to it, go talk to O'Sullivan in the conference room," Gibbs said.

"Okay." He paused. "Talk to him about what, Boss?"

"A book deal." He watched while McGee digested that.

"Ah… a book deal?" McGee repeated back, like he couldn't possibly have heard that right.

"Yeah. He needs a publisher, or an agent, or something. Go talk to him."

"Okay," McGee repeated with obvious hesitation. Gibbs turned to his computer and didn't clarify further. McGee was a smart kid. He'd figure it out.

* * *

to be continued...

Feedback and reviews always welcome. Like it or not, I'd love to hear from you.


	22. Guide to OCs

**Author's Note after Part 20**

**Other Characters Worth Remembering**

It has been brought to my attention that the number of Other Characters in this story, while realistic and necessary, has become a little confusing for some. In an effort to make this smoother, I offer this reference. The below-listed O/Cs will make a reappearance in One Less, and should be remembered. All others have done their duty, delivered their information, and will not be heard from again. (Remember what they said, forget who they are).

* * *

**O/C Cast Worth Remembering, In Order of Appearance**

1. Corporal Dominic "**Nicky**" Masterson: Retired Marine, homeless, witness to the murder of Yeoman Frank Ferrara

2. Special Agent David **Fredrick**: Agent Afloat, USS Roosevelt

3. Capt. Simon **McNally:** Commanding Officer, USS Roosevelt

4. Commander (Father) Andrew **Thayer:** Lead Chaplain, USS Roosevelt

5. Marine Major Raymond **Ortiz**: Prior victim of the conspiracy, died a year later in hospital

6. Master Chief Hospital Corpsman Ian** Goetz**: Prior victim of the conspiracy, damaged legs, currently teaching at NNMC

7. Marine Staff Sergeant Allan **Acosta**: Brig guard at Quantico, escort to O'Sullivan, former subordinate to Gibbs

8. Marine Private Tadhg **O'Sullivan**: Information source, currently incarcerated at the Quantico Brig, but Gibbs is working on it :o)

9. Will** Taylor**: JAG Attorney (civilian), NCIS Liaison

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

**Others who will be mentioned again, but only in passing:**

Culinary Specialist Second Class Leroy **Demmings**: Victim of conspiracy who stayed in the Navy

Lt. Brandon **Hutchinson**: Victim of conspiracy, paralyzed

Lt. Ben **Brisbin**: Victim of conspiracy, deafened. Now homeless and unreachable somewhere in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

Lt. Adrian **Hollbrook**: Witness to assault on his former partner, Demmings, still aboard Roosevelt

**Gregor**: Proprietor of Navy Yard Base Exchange (BX), new employer of Nicky

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

There are others yet to come who are important, and others who are insignificant. Telling you which is which would spoil the impact(s) of their arrival, so bear with me, dear readers. I think it'll be worth it.


	23. Part 21

**One Less - Part 21**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Twenty minutes later, McGee returned from talking with O'Sullivan. At Gibbs' questioning look, he said he had some ideas, but it would take some time. And some work. Did Gibbs want him to get on it now? Later, Gibbs told him, and McGee went back to crunching the numbers.

Security escorted Petty Officer Radkoff into the squadroom a little under an hour later. The young man was wearing the new Service Dress uniform, which he'd obviously put on fresh for the trip to the Navy Yard. He was carrying a long overcoat over his arm, his garrison cap and gloves in one hand. Gibbs was just coming down the stairs from the upper level and saw Radkoff step off the elevator. Even from that distance in that one look, Gibbs could see he was nervous.

"Ziver," Gibbs called softly from above. She looked up at him. Gibbs nodded to the pair headed for them and tossed his head slightly toward the hallway leading to interrogation. Ziva glanced at them, then nodded her understanding and stood to greet their visitor. Gibbs continued down the stairs and around the corner away from his desk.

Demmings – the victim who'd escaped without a disabling injury – had said his partner had injured one of his attackers. A sailor who'd been bragging about being involved in the attack had gone to the infirmary the next morning with a matching injury, and Radkoff claimed to have witnessed him suffering that injury while on duty. If Radkoff had lied about the cause of the injury, chances were it was because he'd been involved in the attack, too. Or at least was good enough friends with someone who had been involved to risk his military career for him. Gibbs was eager to get Radkoff into interrogation.

He waited until Ziva and Radkoff were gone, then returned to his desk. Gibbs had read through Radkoff's file and had a good sense of what kind of sailor he was. A hard worker, well-liked, rated above average in all aspects of his regular reviews. There was nothing in his file that indicated he was anything special, but he certainly did his job well. Gibbs knew from experience that the more specialized the unit, the more you had to shine to receive any kind of commendation or recognition. The things that got run-of-the-mill sailors noticed were the things SEALs and SWCCs did on a routine basis. That fact that this sailor had made it through SWCC training by itself said something about his character. Which is why Gibbs knew that for Radkoff to be this nervous about a call to NCIS, he had to be feeling guilt about something. But was it the right thing?

Gibbs had also noted that the only trouble Radkoff had been in up until now had involved bad judgment with women. A couple of curfew violations while on shore leave with local girls, one breach of operational security to call a girlfriend during a communications blackout, a complaint to Radkoff's C.O. from one girlfriend when he left her for another. Those things were noted in his file, but had not impacted his career. Gibbs thought knowing about that propensity might be useful.

He took Radkoff's SRB and his coffee and went to the observation room. Ziva was there in the dark, watching through the glass. Radkoff had set his things on the end of the table and was sitting in the interviewee's chair, alternately looking at his reflection in the glass and staring at his hands, smoothing out his uniform and wiping away the sweat that kept beading on his forehead and the sides of his head under his brush cut.

"He is very anxious," Ziva said.

"Hmm," Gibbs agreed.

"Do you think he knows why he is here?" Ziva asked, glancing at Gibbs as he took a sip of his coffee.

"Probably."

"He may have done something else we are not aware of," Ziva said.

"Not likely," Gibbs said. They watched him fidget.

"Is it hot in there?" Gibbs asked the tech, who checked a reading.

"Nope. Seventy-six and fluorescent." Gibbs smiled to himself. The Government building winter weather forecast. In the summer, if they were lucky, it was seventy-two and fluorescent.

The differences between O'Sullivan and Radkoff was striking. Both had been called down to NCIS unexpectedly – a nerve-racking experience for most service members whether they'd done something wrong or not. Yet O'Sullivan had sat calmly, keeping himself occupied, while Radkoff was staring at the walls, seemingly ready to jump out of his skin.

To gauge the extent of Radkoff's nerves, Gibbs suddenly reached up and slapped his hand hard against the glass. In interrogation, Radkoff jumped like he'd been shocked. In observation, the tech said "Hey!" before quieting again at Ziva's glare. That answers that, Gibbs thought.

"Why don't you go talk to him, Officer David," Gibbs said. "See what he has to say."

"Very well," Ziva said, surprised, but covering quickly. "Is there anything in particular you would like to hear?"

"Just the truth, Ziva," Gibbs said. Ziva gave him a sly smile.

"Of course," she said. She took the file from him and stepped out into the hall. Gibbs sipped his coffee and waited for the show to start.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

Radkoff jumped again and spun toward the door when Ziva pushed it open. They should all be this easy, Gibbs thought. He watched as Ziva pulled the interviewer's chair a foot or so away from the table and sat. She studied him for a moment.

"Hello, Petty Officer Radkoff," Ziva said. Her voice was modulated slightly deeper than normal. Attractively so, Gibbs thought. She'd read his file too, and obviously great minds thought alike on this one.

"Hello, ma'am," Radkoff said and swallowed. He took a deep breath and seemed to steady himself.

"Officer David," Ziva said. "Not ma'am."

"Officer?" Radkoff asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I am an agent with the Mossad, temporarily assigned in a liaison position with NCIS."

"Mossad? What have I done to annoy the Israelis, Officer David?"

"Nothing that I know of, Petty Officer Radkoff."

"You can call me Sasha," he said with a small smile. In the observation room, Gibbs grinned into his coffee cup. Score one for the Israeli.

"And you may call me Ziva," she said and returned his smile.

"So, Ziva, what am I doing here?" he asked. He took another breath and visibly relaxed.

"Some old business I would like to talk to you about," Ziva said.

Gibbs cell phone rang, startling him in the quiet of observation. He glanced at the caller ID – blocked – and flipped it open.

It was the director. Gibbs' presence was required on the executive level. He glanced through the glass at Ziva's obvious comfort with Radkoff, and said he'd be right up.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

It took him half an hour to answer all the director's questions, then he spent another 20 minutes listening in on a conference call between the Director and the Secretary of the Navy. Gibbs was actually impressed that the Director managed to fully brief SecNav on their string of connected cases without spilling the connection. Politics was a game for experts, of which Gibbs certainly wasn't one.

He was surprised to see neither McGee nor Ziva in the squadroom when he descended from the upper level. Refilling his coffee on the way, Gibbs went to the observation room. McGee was standing in the dark, watching Ziva and Radkoff through the glass. Ziva was sitting in her chair, leaning forward on her elbows with her back to the mirror. Radkoff, too, was leaning forward so less than a foot separated their faces. Radkoff was grinning slightly. The room was silent.

"What's going on?" Gibbs asked.

"They're having a staring contest," McGee said. "Radkoff hasn't blinked in almost..."

"Coming up on four minutes," the tech reported.

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"He challenged her to it," McGee said.

Gibbs looked at him, a look of disbelief on his face.

"I've been gone for an hour, and they're playing games?" he asked incredulously.

"Radkoff admitted about half an hour ago that he and Hartman attacked Demmings in Italy."

Gibbs was thrown for a second. "Really?" he asked.

"She convinced him she thought whoever had done it had done the right thing, saved the Navy the bother of a court martial. He thinks Demmings left the Navy after the assault, so he considers it mission accomplished. Even so, he was still hesitant to give details, so she also convinced him the statute of limitations had run, and they wouldn't be able to charge him with assault even if he went straight to JAG and admitted the whole thing."

"Really?" he said again. While that was technically correct, there were several other things they could charge him with, the least of which was misconduct that discredits the military, a catch-all crime for enlisted personnel under the general articles of the UCMJ. That by itself could get him dishonorably discharged. But his guess was that the sailor didn't know that.

"He said Hartman was involved in the attack on Major Ortiz, but swears he was only recruited after that, only for Demmings."

"Recruited?" Gibbs asked.

"That's the word he used. He said each man is recruited for a specific upcoming mission. After that one, or one more if he wants, he's encouraged to recruit someone to replace him."

"Clever," Gibbs commented. "Spreads the wealth. So if Radkoff was only involved in one, who'd he bring in to replace him?"

"He won't say. The next attack was Lt. Hutchinson, and he knows the statute hasn't quite run. He denies it was him, but he won't say who it was."

"Anything on who's pulling the strings?"

"That's what she's still working on. He says he doesn't know, but she's not sure."

"Anything else?" Gibbs asked. McGee frowned, checking his memory.

"That's everything so far," he confirmed.

"And you don't think she's going to kick your ass for giving away all of her success and leaving her nothing to tell me?"

There was a stunned silence from McGee, which Gibbs enjoyed for a moment before continuing.

"You find anything yet?" he addressed McGee. The young agent blinked a couple times, refocusing himself.

"A few things. Cross-referencing everything cuts the suspect list on four of the victims to less than 20 possibles each. But we got lucky with the two attacks in Spain. With the data we've got, and assuming it was someone on the ship, there's statistically only seven people that could have been involved in both attacks."

"So two of those seven were involved in both of those assaults, guaranteed?"

"Almost guaranteed," McGee said. "There's a slight chance it could have been someone from Rota, or a local not connected to the military at all."

"How slight?" Gibbs asked.

"Very. But, you know, I mean, what if…" McGee was stammering, and Gibbs decided to cut him break.

"So except for that small 'what if,' two of seven names you've got were involved?"

"Right," McGee said, relieved to be moving on.

"Best number I've heard so far."

From interrogation came a sound of triumph. Radkoff was rubbing his weeping eyes, and Ziva was wriggling in a seated victory dance. He'd blinked first.

"Now you owe me one," Ziva crowed. She reached over the table and touched his shoulder coyly. Gibbs rolled his eyes. She was one hell of an actress, even from the back.

"Come on," Gibbs said, and ushered McGee out into the hall. "So who are the seven?"

McGee pulled out his PDA, clicked it a few times, then read off the names. Five officers, two enlisted. They rounded the corner into the squadroom.

"Alright. Find them and invite them down."

"Uh, okay. But we don't have enough, Boss," McGee said. Gibbs sat behind his desk.

"Enough what?"

"Probable cause. It's a high statistical probability that two of those seven were involved in the attacks in Spain, but there's no other evidence. The statistics alone aren't enough to force them here if they're still in the Navy and don't want to come, and aren't enough for arrest warrants if they're out of the military," McGee explained from his own desk.

Gibbs sighed. He knew the law was there for a reason, but sometimes it frustrated the hell out of him. "Find them anyway."

McGee set to work again. A thought occurred to Gibbs: "How many of them are Catholic?" he asked.

McGee checked. "Three."

"Start with them."

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

McGee located the three men in short order. Unfortunately, none of them were going to make it to NCIS this day. The closest of them was stationed at Naval Air Station Patuxent River in Maryland. Gibbs called the Commanding Officer at Pax River and arranged to have that man sent up to the Navy Yard first thing in the morning, as part of an ongoing investigation. Of the other two Catholics, one was out of the Navy and living in Kentucky, and the other was in Afghanistan. Nothing they could do about them. At least not until they had something more on them that just a statistical probability.

Of the non-Catholics on McGee's list, three were still in the Navy. One was in California, one in Washington State. The third was still assigned to the Roosevelt, but according to the deck officer was not scheduled to report aboard until the next day. The last of the non-Catholics was out of the Navy, living in Baltimore. They could easily drive out to meet with him, but Gibbs wasn't sure he wanted to give the guy a heads up until he had more.

Ziva came up to report what she'd gotten from Radkoff, and was not silent about her annoyance over McGee having already spilled the rice. Beans, Gibbs mentally translated, but didn't bother to correct her. She had come at the question of who was at the top of the conspiracy several ways, but each time the end result was the same: Radkoff claimed not to know. He also steadfastly refused to name the sailor he'd recruited to replace him after the attack on Demmings. Gibbs figured that would change when reality set in. For now, the sailor saw himself as bullet proof. Gibbs told Ziva to call the Shore Patrol and have Radkoff arrested for general misconduct. They'd take him to the brig at Naval Support Facility Anacostia, the closest overnight detention facility to the Yard. Gibbs would figure out what to do with him tomorrow.

Gibbs sent Acosta and O'Sullivan back to Quantico. O'Sullivan had spoken to the hospital, then Acosta had allowed him to call his parents to pass on the news. They were hesitant at first, but reassurances from Acosta that this wasn't a scam, and that only good things could come of it, eased their minds.

The windows in the squadroom showed the daylight already gone when Gibbs decided they'd done all they could for today. Besides, the Base Exchange closed at 6:00, and he needed to collect Nicky. He told Ziva and McGee to pack it in, then called down to Abby to deliver the same message. He gathered up the SRBs McGee had left him and everything else they had on paper and stuffed it in his briefcase before heading over to the BX.

On arrival at Gregor's shop, Nicky informed Gibbs that he wouldn't need to return to Gibbs' house tonight. He'd been paid for his day's work, the retired Marine said, and he'd won another $40 playing chess. Gibbs had raised an eyebrow at that, and the twinkle in Gregor's eye belied the solemn agreement that Nicky had, in fact, won fair and square. The old man had a soft heart, Gibbs knew. With his newfound wealth, Nicky said he wanted to spend the night in a motel. No insult, Gunny, he'd been quick to assure. But since he had earned some money fair and square, he wanted to treat himself. Gibbs figured it was safe enough, as long as the motel he chose wasn't anywhere near the warehouse. Nicky agreed, and said he'd call before he travelled very far in the morning. Gibbs cautioned him to stay away from the warehouse until they caught the men responsible for Ferrara's death, and Nicky solemnly agreed.

With a wave of thanks to Gregor, and an invitation from the shop keeper for Nicky to come back and work again any time, they headed out. Gibbs drove Nicky to the motel he wanted. It was better than a 'rent by the hour or by the month' flophouse, but not so upscale that ID and a credit card would be required to rent a room. It was four miles from Nicky's warehouse, and Gibbs deemed it far enough. Nicky repeated his promise to stay in the neighborhood for dinner, and to call in the morning. Gibbs dropped him off, then drove around the building and found a spot to park on the edge of the mostly-empty parking lot. He watched through the lobby windows while Nicky checked in, got his room key, and walked down the outside hallway to his room. Gibbs noted the room number and headed home.

Dinner was a quick affair, a small pot of stew cooked on the stove, and afterwards Gibbs opened his briefcase and started re-reading what they had. He needed to get a handle on this thing. There were too many players, too much information banging around inside his head. Somehow, he had to make sense of it, and fast. The Roosevelt was set to sail in less than three days.

Which reminded him. Gibbs leaned on the edge of the kitchen counter and called Tony.

"I don't think it's Fredrick," DiNozzo said after he found a private place to talk.

"Why not?" Gibbs asked.

"He loves his job too much to risk it. He's lived on this ship almost 10 years, and he's convinced you're going to get him fired because he didn't file the missing persons report. I don't get any sense from him that he's worried about something bigger coming out. And not in a 'they'll never catch me' kind of way. I think he's just clueless."

"You sure? He's in the best position to have been covering this up," Gibbs said.

"I know. He's no fan of gays in the military, and he absolutely knew about Ferrara. But I still don't think he's involved."

Gibbs took a breath. "Find out for sure. I do not want to have to follow this case across the Atlantic."

Gibbs filled him in on O'Sullivan, Hartman, and Radkoff, and the statistical narrowing McGee had done. He gave DiNozzo the name of the one of seven that was still assigned to the Roosevelt. Gibbs would call the deck officer in the morning and have him alert NCIS when the guy reported for duty.

"We're seriously against the clock here, DiNozzo. If Fredrick's not involved, find out why he didn't know. Capt. McNally's gonna want his pound of flesh in any event, so if it wasn't him, get him ready to defend himself."

"Will do." DiNozzo asked.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

Gibbs managed to make it through the night in his own bed. Which isn't to say he didn't have nightmares: He'd woken twice, choking back the screams. The first time, it was Kate. The second, it was Nicky standing next to him when the mortar blew in Kuwait.

When he caught his breath that time, Gibbs again went down to the basement, but only long enough to fill his mug with bourbon and toss it back. And do it again, and again, until the bottle was empty. Then he'd returned to his room and laid out on the bed, waiting for the alcohol to do its thing. It had been a lot of years since he'd wanted drugs – of any kind – to help him sleep. Even longer since he'd used them. He'd never tried to rationalize the need in the past, and he didn't this time, either. He needed to sleep. He didn't want to dream. That's all.

It had worked, but the side effects were predictable. A long shower, some eye drops, twice-brushed teeth, and Gibbs finally felt something less than half dead. Two cups of extra dark and four aspirin pushed the pounding in his head back to a tolerable level. At least he knew what had brought on the headache this morning.

The morning had dawned gray and dreary. Appropriate for his mood, Gibbs figured. The roads were clear and the traffic wasn't any worse than usual. Driving in with his third cup balanced on his steering wheel, Gibbs gave some thought to how he'd woken up. There'd been no ringing phone this time, no sudden move from sleep to wake. Just a slow, measured rise to awareness through gradually-lightening layers of fog until the pain in his head and a queasy feeling in his stomach drove him out of bed. Nothing he wouldn't have expected considering the quantity of liquor he'd consumed.

What had been unexpected was how he'd been lying when he finally woke.

Shannon had loved to tease him about the way he slept. He would start out on his own side, but always ended up curled around her on the far side. The first couple of times they'd shared a bed and he'd woken that way, he'd been nervous, thinking she'd feel like he was smothering her or something. When he'd finally admitted why he always jumped away when he woke up, she'd smiled at his discomfort, kissed him on the nose, and told him it was alright. She liked it. It made her feel loved, protected, safe. She called him her teddy bear.

The first time he deployed after they were married, she'd sent him a little brown teddy bear in Marine Dress Blues. It made him smile. He'd tucked it away in his kit and it had travelled with him always. Until Kelly was born. Then it had gone into her crib, her bed, and finally her casket.

In the months after they died, after he made it home, he'd often woken to find himself hugging her pillows on her side of the bed, tears drying on his face. The occurrences had faded over time. When he remarried, he had occasionally woken wrapped around his new wife, early on. She'd hated it.

He'd stopped moving across the bed after that. Two more wives, a handful of lovers. He'd learned to stay put when he slept. Usually, he slept flat on his back. Sometimes on his stomach with an arm under his head. But whatever position he fell asleep in was how he woke up. Until last night, when Gibbs had woken to find himself curled around a pillow on the far side of the bed. He was hugging it so tightly the creases were pressed into his face and chest. There were no tears, but when he'd tried to roll over he'd discovered the muscles in his limbs were clenched so tightly he had trouble straightening them.

The death of his family had not been in his dreams this time. And after drinking the bourbon, he didn't remember dreaming anymore. But to have woken that way, he must have been thinking of her.

What the hell was going on with him lately? Stopped at a red, Gibbs put more drops in his eyes, rolled them around in their sockets and drank more coffee. He did not like feeling this way.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

Thursday morning. Three days since Nicky had shown up at the Navy Yard. They were making progress, but not nearly fast enough. On Saturday afternoon, the Roosevelt – and all the suspects she carried – would sail for the Persian Gulf and out of their reach. Not that they wouldn't be able to recall any good suspects they had. But the requirement for proof would rise exponentially. There wouldn't be any casually bringing someone in for a chat. They'd have to be damn sure of a sailor's guilt before they'd be allowed to fly a transport out to retrieve someone from a carrier at sea.

Gibbs was first one in the squadroom. He grabbed a coffee – his fourth of the morning, but who was counting – and stowed his coat and gun. There was a message from the Watch Commander at Anacostia's detention facility. He wanted to know what they should do with Radkoff. The charge he'd been arrested on was a wobbler: could be felony, could be misdemeanor, depending on the nature of the misconduct he was accused of. Radkoff's CO had already called Anacostia. If it was a misdemeanor, he wanted Radkoff back at their base ASAP. Gibbs returned the call, telling the Watch Commander that in addition to the stated charge, Radkoff was a material witness in a homicide. The paperwork would be there shortly. Hanging up the phone, Gibbs started working on a material witness warrant. With one of those in hand, they could hold Radkoff indefinitely. He would eventually interrogate Radkoff again himself, but not until he had more solid information to threaten him with. If nothing else, Gibbs knew Radkoff had the name of the guy he'd recruited. That sailor – or Marine – was responsible for Hutchinson, and that case was still open. Gibbs wanted him. Bad.

McGee arrived with a cheery 'morning, Boss,' that was immediately followed by a classic double take. Gibbs must look worse than he thought.

"You okay, Boss?" McGee asked, stowing his stuff.

Gibbs glared at him and McGee swallowed and looked away. Gibbs turned back to his work and tried to ignore both the pounding in his head and the aura of concern wafting at him from McGee's desk.

Ziva hadn't yet arrived when his desk phone rang. Gibbs snapped it up. "Gibbs."

"Hold for Colonel Hatton," a young male voice said, and the line fell silent. Gibbs had only a few seconds to try and make sense out of that before there was static, and a voice he hadn't heard in almost 20 years came over the line.

"Is that you, Gibbs?" the voice asked. Gibbs felt himself straighten in his chair, his eyes going to middle distance.

"Colonel Hatton?" Gibbs asked. "How the hell are you, sir?"

"Holding my own, Gunny. It's good to hear your voice."

"You too. It's been awhile," Gibbs said.

"It has," Hatton agreed. There was a burst of static, then the line cleared.

"You have some time today to meet with your old CO? I'd like to take you to lunch," he said.

"Where are you, sir?" Gibbs asked. He truly had no idea where the Colonel was. Gibbs hadn't even known the man was still in the Marines. He certainly shouldn't have been. Hatton had been Gibbs' last commanding officer, top man in charge of the First Battalion, First Marines out of Camp Pendleton. Most everyone Gibbs had known from that time in his life was long retired. Yesterday it'd been Acosta, now Hatton. Old home week.

"I'm scheduled to be in D.C. in a couple hours. You could pick me up at Andrews, we'll grab a bite." The static surged again, loudly enough that Gibbs took the phone away from his ear for a few seconds while it settled. He realized the Colonel was calling him from a satellite phone aboard an airplane.

"Ordinarily, I'd love to, Colonel. But I'm working this case that's keeping me pretty busy and I…"

"I know, Gunny," the colonel interrupted him.

"What?" Gibbs asked, and Col. Hatton repeated himself.

"I know about your case. And I'd really like to take you to lunch when I get in. Can you manage it?"

Gibbs considered that, trying to understand the message that was lying beneath the Colonel's words.

"Alright. Where?"

"It'll be an Air Force C-130, tail number 0499. Should be in around 1115. Not sure what hangar, you'll have to ask. Looking forward to seeing you, Gibbs."

"Yeah, you too, sir." The line went dead. Gibbs sat for several seconds with the phone next to his ear before gently setting it in the cradle.

"McGee," he said, and across the aisle, the young agent's head snapped up from whatever he'd been doing on his computer.

"Give me a quick search on Marine Colonel John Hatton. Should be retired."

"What do you need to know?" McGee asked, already tapping keys.

"Where he is and what he's doing," Gibbs said. McGee nodded.

It took him less than two minutes.

"Colonel John Hatton, retired from the Marine Corps in 1994, remained in the ready reserves, voluntarily recalled in 2004. Currently the Executive Officer of Camp Phoenix in Afghanistan."

"What the hell does he want with me?" Gibbs mumbled to himself.

"Boss?" McGee asked.

"He have any connection to the Roosevelt?" Gibbs asked more loudly. McGee considered that, then did a search. This one took longer.

"He was aboard the Roosevelt when it went to the Persian Gulf in 2005, as Commanding Officer of the First Battalion, Second Marines."

"So he would have been Major Ortiz's CO," Gibbs said.

"And possibly knew – or at least knew of – both Petty Officer Demmings and Lt. Hutchinson."

"Not likely. Senior Marine officers wouldn't have any reason to interact with junior sailors. Was he aboard for Ferrara's accident?"

"Um, yes. Yes he was."

Gibbs considered that. "He have kids in the service?" A pause while McGee looked that up.

"Two, both Marines. A daughter, Capt. Grace Hatton, Annapolis Class of 1997, Third Medical Battalion, Third Marines, in Okinawa. And a son, Capt. John Hatton Junior, also Annapolis Class of 1997. Currently serving in Marine Heavy Helicopter Squadron 366, Cherry Point. They're twins."

"Junior married?" Gibbs asked. He was trying to figure out what possible connection Hatton might have to their case, and how he'd become aware of it at all.

"Yes. Wife and three dependents living in base housing."

Gibbs considered that.

"What're you looking for, Boss?"

"The reason Col. Hatton would be coming all the way to D.C. to take me to lunch," Gibbs said.

"Do you know him?"

"He was CO of my Battalion when I was discharged," Gibbs said.

"So maybe he's just touching base with an old friend," McGee suggested.

"We weren't friends. He was a senior officer. He gave orders to a guy two guys above my boss."

"Maybe he knows something about the case," McGee said.

"That's what I'm looking for," Gibbs said. "What could he know?"

"Could he have been involved?" McGee asked. Gibbs snorted.

"Not a chance."

There was a moment of silence, then McGee ventured: "How do you know?"

Gibbs cocked his head, looking across at McGee. "I know."

* * *

to be continued...

Sorry for the delay. We're getting closer to where I run out of words, so things are slowing down a little. Reviews and comments - good or bad - will increase my writing speed. Promise.


	24. Part 22

**One Less - Part 22**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

The guy from Pax River showed up just after nine. Gibbs escorted him to interrogation. Like the others they'd run into during this investigation, he was nervous, but Gibbs sensed no guilt. Gibbs started out easy, asking routine questions about his background, his duty, why he'd joined the Navy. He got more specific about the nights in Spain, and the guy was clueless. Gibbs asked about his opinion on gays in the military and got the company line. He dug a little deeper and got the guy's real opinion: he was 'creeped out' by the idea of sharing quarters with homos, but it wasn't hard to deal with it. The Navy's policy was to discharge anyone who admitted they were gay. If someone made it obvious they were gay, all he had to do was report it. The Navy would take care of it.

Gibbs went at it every way he could think of and got nothing. He worked it a little longer than necessary, just to be sure the headache and residual hangover weren't clouding his perception. Not the case. He didn't believe in coincidences, but McGee's statistics showed there were seven guys who could have done it, and only two that had. Unfortunately, this guy wasn't one of the two.

He let the guy go home and went out for coffee before returning to the squad room. The time he'd spent hadn't been a total waste: The odds on identifying one of the dirtbags responsible for the attack on Brisbin and the sailor three years before that had just dropped to two in six. A one-third shot. Couldn't beat those odds with a stick. Next target was the guy in Baltimore. Maybe they'd drive up this afternoon.

"You find Brisbin yet?" Gibbs asked McGee as he rounded his desk.

"Sort of," McGee said. When Gibbs gave him a look, McGee explained. "I found his mother. She hasn't talked to him since Veteran's Day. He's an alcoholic, lives on the streets. She sees him around every once in awhile. He didn't transition well to civilian life."

"She have any way to contact him?"

"She said she'd try to find him, and try to get him to call. She didn't sound hopeful."

Gibbs nodded. They could probably make the case without him. But it would be better to have him.

By the time he left for Andrews, most of Gibbs' hangover symptoms had passed. He still had the headache, so he'd swallowed two of Ducky's pills to try and stabilize it. It had to be the alcohol, he reasoned. He wasn't inclined to examine too closely the fact that he'd had a headache off and on for going on four days now. It was unusual, and a matter of concern, and something he would just ignore.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

A little after 11:00, Gibbs was standing in the open bay doors of a hangar at the Naval Air Facility on Andrews Air Force Base. As the closest military base to the Capitol capable of handling heavy aircraft, Andrews housed units from all four branches of the service, plus the D.C. National Guard. The base's most famous tenant was the Air Force's 89th Airlift Wing, whose aircraft included the pair of identical VC-25s – the military version of the 747 – known collectively as Air Force One. Gibbs was nowhere near that part of the base. His security clearance was as high as it got for a civilian, but even so he would need an escort and a damn good reason to get anywhere near that operation. He'd actually been aboard Air Force One – both of them – six or seven years ago when someone killed one of the President's Naval aides in an attempt to force circumstances that would allow an assassination of the man himself. Gibbs, with the help of then-Secret-Service-agent Kate Todd, had stopped the attempt. But only barely. He'd gotten a civilian service award and a personal letter of appreciation from President Bush for that one. In a White House ceremony, DiNozzo had accepted the medal on his behalf. It was probably in Tony's desk drawer with the others Gibbs had picked up along the way. The recognition was nice, but truly not something he cared much about. In his mind, the best reward from that case had been that Kate had resigned from the Service and come to work for him. She had been an undeniable bonus to his team, and he hadn't once regretted bringing her over. Well, at least not until she'd been killed.

He sipped at his coffee and watched as an Air Force C-130 Super Hercules came lumbering toward him from the flight line. The gray color of the plane's skin almost matched the sky, making it seem to fade in and out of focus. From this distance, he couldn't read the big aircraft's tail numbers, but he figured it was probably the right one. Gibbs had seen it come in hot about 10 minutes before. The Hercules had taken most of the runway to drop from approach speed to taxi. Gibbs knew it could start and stop in a lot less space, so he figured it must be fully loaded. If he remembered right, it could hold about 45,000 pounds of gear and personnel, which translated into a hundred or so passengers, 75 patients on gurneys, half a dozen pallets of equipment, a couple of Humvees, or even an armored personnel carrier.

As it turned parallel to the hangar and jolted to a stop, Gibbs caught the tail number. Definitely his aircraft. The propellers started to wind down, the ground crew rushed forward to chock the wheels, and a minute later, the rear cargo door began to creak downward. A minute after that, a man in Desert MARPATS walked down the ramp, a large duffel over his shoulder. Gibbs squinted a little. The man looked a little older, a little more stooped, but otherwise exactly as Gibbs remembered him. About six feet tall, broad shoulders, so thin as to be almost gaunt, grizzled face, the same gray 'high and tight' brush cut he'd had 20 years before. He waited to see if Colonel Hatton would recognize him.

"Gunny?" Hatton asked as he strode purposefully toward where Gibbs was standing. He held out a hand and they shook.

"It's good to see you, Colonel," Gibbs said. "Can I get your bag?" He gestured toward the duffel.

"The day I can't carry my own seabag is the day I hang it up for good. Where to?"

Gibbs led him over to where he'd parked the sedan. They made small talk – the weather and the economy – and compared notes on people they'd both known then and where they were now.

As Gibbs had told McGee, they had not been friends. Gibbs had been acquainted with 'the old man' of course. He'd served under him in one capacity or another for more than 10 years while he was with the First Marine Division. But he'd only been in Hatton's presence maybe half a dozen times. Hatton had been there for each of Gibbs' staff promotion ceremonies, Sergeant to Staff Sergeant to Gunnery Sergeant. He'd pinned on Gibbs' Silver Star at the medal ceremony. And he'd come by to visit him in the field hospital after he'd lost his family and then almost lost his life in the mortar attack. Otherwise, it was just Hatton's name rubber stamped on the bottom of the orders he received and in the Division newsletters that Shannon had loved to pour over.

Hatton suggested a hole-in-the-wall deli and café a few miles from Andrews toward the District. Gibbs knew of it, but had only eaten there a few times. Hatton seemed to know it well. The place was busy, but it was mostly take-out orders at the lunch counter. Only a few booths were occupied. They picked one that was by itself near the kitchen door and ordered sandwiches, fries and coffee. The small talk continued until the waitress delivered their meals. The colonel was very good at keeping the conversation away from anything serious, and Gibbs was good at keeping it away from anything personal, so the talk flowed smoothly around the innocuous. Gibbs sensed no nervousness or even anticipation from the man. Whatever it was Hatton had to tell him, he was in no hurry.

"You're working a series of assaults on sailors from the Big Stick," Col. Hatton finally said after he took his first bite of club sandwich. Gibbs had ordered turkey on white.

"We are," Gibbs said.

"Fourteen since 2002," Hatton said.

"Okay," Gibbs said, noting the discrepancy between that and the 12 they now knew of, but choosing to ignore it for now.

"The last victim died."

"He did." There was a pause. Both men ate some. Taking a sip of coffee, Hatton cleared his throat before starting again.

"You know what the motive for the attacks is," he stated.

"We do," Gibbs agreed. "Do you?"

"You've got a guy on board asking questions," Hatton said, ignoring the second half of Gibbs' response.

"Yes I do," Gibbs replied, wondering how Hatton knew about DiNozzo.

"You've got to call him off."

It wasn't what Gibbs expected, and he frowned a little while he chewed.

"Why?" he asked when his mouth was empty.

"He's getting in over his head, and the wrong people have noticed."

"Wrong people?" Gibbs asked.

"He's been targeted," Hatton said and scooped up a handful of fries.

Gibbs gave that some thought. A couple of questions came immediately to mind: why would they target DiNozzo? He wasn't playing it gay. Unless it was an attempt to derail the investigation? Then: who were these 'wrong people'? And more importantly, how did Hatton know about them? How did Hatton know about any of it?

"You know who they are," Gibbs said. It wasn't a question, and Hatton didn't answer it.

"They're planning a move on him after they sail, possibly as early as Charleston, maybe not until they make port in the Azores. It'll depend on how soon they can get the personnel together."

"How do you know?" Gibbs asked.

Hatton took another bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.

"Times are changing, Gunny," Hatton said after a minute. "This new crop of kids coming up now, it's about fifty-fifty those who care and those who don't give a damn. It's not like when we were young. The Corps has always been the most conservative branch of the military, the Navy as a whole right behind. But even here we're seeing the move toward more liberal ideals."

Gibbs nodded, letting him talk. If there was one thing he remembered about Col. Hatton, it was that when he had a point to make, he didn't waste words. The Colonel was going somewhere important with this.

"It's marginalizing those who still have strong beliefs. Before, when most everyone shared your view, there wasn't any need to press others for theirs, or to prove what you believed. Everyone believed the same thing about those people, and they just stayed out of the way."

Gibbs didn't agree with the last part of Hatton's statement, but the first part was certainly true. He nodded again.

"It makes those with strong values, people who care about the kind of message we're sending, want to fight to maintain the status quo. Makes them more eager to push their views on others. Makes them more likely to resort to force when they truly believe what they hold dear is at risk."

"Don't ask, don't tell," Gibbs said. Hatton nodded.

"Change is coming. The President's asked the Joint Chiefs to start working on a new policy. It's got a lot of people concerned. At the upper levels, we soldier on. You follow the lawful orders of your command, no matter how much you personally believe them to be wrong or just plain stupid. It's for the good of the unit, the good of the service."

Hatton took another bite, seeming to mull his words.

"The problem is the ones in the middle, who've been around long enough to want to maintain the status quo, but not long enough to settle in, the ones who still believe strongly in core Christian values. Some of them are trying to send a message. They believe what they're doing is for the good of the country. They believe that no matter what the policy is and will be, these people are not good for us, and they must be removed."

"Removed," Gibbs said for want of anything better. "So they commit murder. How does that sit with core Christian values?"

Hatton waved a dismissive hand at him. "Petty Officer Ferrara was a mistake. There was never any plan to kill him. Things just got out of hand."

"And Major Ortiz?" Gibbs asked. A shadow passed over Hatton's face and his shoulders seemed to sink a little.

"He was a good man. A good Marine."

"And yet he's dead, too."

"They didn't kill him," Hatton said.

"They might as well have," Gibbs said with a touch of anger.

Hatton looked away and ate more fries. "They might as well have," he finally agreed.

"Who are they, Colonel?" Gibbs asked, his voice harsher that it had ever been with a superior officer.

"You look me up, after I called this morning?" Hatton asked, still avoiding the question.

"Yes," Gibbs said.

"So you know what I'm doing these days?"

"XO at Camp Phoenix, since shortly after your recall in 2004."

Hatton nodded. "That was the easy part. You know what I did after I retired in '94?"

Gibbs shook his head. He should have had McGee look at that, too. Must have been the hangover.

"I went to seminary," Hatton said. For a second, Gibbs was confused. Then the light dawned and he got a sinking feeling in his chest.

"You're a priest," Gibbs said.

"Deacon, actually. But the distinction is pretty much irrelevant for your purpose."

"You can't tell me what you know," Gibbs stated. Hatton shook his head.

"If someone comes to me for spiritual guidance, and during our conversation tells me of a crime of violence that is about to be committed, I can warn the future victim. That's the difference between a deacon and a priest. And it's why I was able to call you. But I can't give you any more details, and I can't tell you who's involved."

"So someone came to you and told you my guy was asking too many questions."

"Correct. He's definitely in danger. You've got to get him off the ship before she sails."

"Can't do that, Colonel. I put him on that ship to find out who killed Petty Officer Ferrara, and to find who's behind the conspiracy. And given the choice, he won't leave until he's found everything he can."

Hatton shook his head dismissively. "You didn't put him anywhere, Gunny. He's been on TR's crew more than four years."

Gibbs blinked at him, then frowned.

"Who are you talking about? My man's only been on the ship since Tuesday."

"Lt. Holbrook?"

Suddenly, Gibbs swore. "Damn it. He's not my guy. He's not supposed to be…" Gibbs trailed off. That wasn't the important thing here. "You say they're going to attack him?"

"As soon as they can put together personnel. Ferrara's death shook them up pretty good. They've had to recruit some new players. Holbrook's not working for you?"

"Hell no. He was…" Gibbs stopped again. This information street was definitely not two-way. "He's not working for me. But I'll see what I can do about getting him someplace safe until we wrap this up. What else can you tell me?"

"Nothing. Since Holbrook's not yours, I've probably already said too much."

Gibbs sighed and went back to his fries. The Priest-penitent privilege was one of the most revered by the court. As a deacon, Hatton was just as protected. They'd never get a subpoena to even bring Hatton to court, much less force him to talk. Gibbs had come up against priests claiming the privilege a couple of times, and he'd always struck out on getting what he needed directly. But sometimes there were ways around it...

"You're serving in a non-clergy position," Gibbs said.

"Of course I am," Hatton said. "You know as well as I do that the Corps doesn't have Chaplains."

"So whoever it was had to invoke the privilege before they started talking to you. It couldn't be assumed."

"That's true," Hatton said.

"Did he?"

"I didn't say I spoke to a male. But we can use that pronoun to make it easier," Hatton said. Gibbs barely refrained from growling at his former CO. Everyone inside this thing was male. Hatton answered the question.

"Yes. He made it absolutely clear he was seeking spiritual guidance and expected our conversation to be privileged."

"Why did you talk to him?" Gibbs asked.

"Excuse me?" Hatton asked.

Gibbs clarified. "You're the Executive Office of a forward military base. Not a military Chaplain. So why would he call you? And when he did, why didn't you refer him to the base chaplain?"

"I tried. He wanted to speak to me," Hatton said. "Personally."

"So you know him," Gibbs said. "Personally." Hatton said nothing.

"You had to know him. And he had to know you. No one who didn't know you personally would know you'd become a Deacon."

"Not necessarily, but a reasonable assumption," Hatton said. He ate the last corner of his sandwich and drank some coffee.

"Either you knew him very well, or he was a high-ranking officer. Otherwise, your adjutant wouldn't have put the call through."

"Again, a reasonable assumption, but not necessarily true. Maybe I answered the phone myself. Or maybe it came in on my cell. I do have one of those, you know."

"Which doesn't work overseas outside of urban areas. Come on, Colonel. Even I know that."

Hatton gave a small smile and granted the point.

"Was he looking for absolution?" Gibbs asked. Hatton shook his head.

"Deacons are not capable of providing it. We don't hear confession, and we can't offer absolution."

"So he just wanted to talk."

"He was seeking spiritual guidance," Hatton repeated. Gibbs knew it was a buzz phrase related to maintaining the privilege.

"Did you know anything about these attacks before he came to you?" Gibbs asked.

"I knew Major Ortiz was assaulted in Dubai. I didn't know why. I didn't know about any of the others."

"So did he feed you this theory about the changing times, or did you come up with it on your own since he talked to you?"

Hatton thought about that, obviously testing his limits in his own mind. Gibbs waited.

"He set it up, to try and explain the events. He felt completely justified in what they were doing, until Petty Officer Ferrara was killed. Then he began to doubt the mission. He was looking for guidance. In order to get it, he had to give me background. About the victims and about what they were up to. And why."

Gibbs stored the reference to 'mission.' Radkoff had used the same word. "And in the process of this, he told you about the others."

"Yes."

"So he knows everything," Gibbs said.

Hatton shrugged. "I don't know what everything is."

"But he knows enough that you decided you had to reach 20 years into the past and warn me."

"So you could warn Holbrook."

"How'd you know it was my case?"

Hatton frowned. "How do you think I knew? I called the Navy Yard and asked who was handling the investigation into Petty Officer Ferrara's death."

"And they told you?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't they?"

"What else did they tell you?"

"I don't follow," Hatton said.

"Did they tell you about the other victims?"

"No."

"So how'd you know I knew?"

"About the others?"

"Yes," Gibbs said. He realized Hatton was stalling. "How did you know that telling me about the other victims wasn't going to break the privilege you're claiming?"

Hatton's eyes narrowed. Gibbs pushed it a little harder.

"And how'd you know that I'd be aware of the motive? Outside of my team, no one at the Navy Yard knows that."

Again, silence.

"So your guy mentioned my name, gave you details from my investigation. Is he inside? A member of my team maybe? I deserve to know that, at least. Don't I?" Gibbs baited him.

"No, he's not anyone you work with," Hatton said.

"But he knows what we're doing. He told you it was me, and told you I knew what was going on. He told you I'd sent a man to the Roosevelt, but he got the ID wrong. So not inside, but watching."

Hatton didn't respond.

"You took a call at your base in Afghanistan from someone in Norfolk. Probably someone on the Roosevelt itself. No one on the military payroll is going to make that call on their own dime, so chances are very good it went through the DSN. Which means there'll be a record of the call. If I look for it, I will find it."

There was another moment of silence. Hatton's eyes narrowed. A mix of anger and dismay, Gibbs thought. The Commanding Officer clearly wanted to order Gibbs to stand down, to do what he was told and damn the consequences. The man just as clearly wanted to pretend he'd never said a word. Finally, he took a deep breath and let it out in a rush.

"If you go to the trouble of checking records from the Afghanistan switchboard for the past week, you won't find anything significant. No outgoing calls from my office long enough to cover the conversation I would have had to have had to get this information. You'll find plenty of calls between my office and personnel from the Roosevelt, both on the ship and ashore. They're headed our way with troops and equipment. Arrangements are being made. It's my job. But I've made no calls that would get your attention.

"Records of DSN calls originating from the Roosevelt will likely get you something more interesting: A single phone call, late evening for them, early morning for us, lasting more than an hour. There won't be any way of tracing who made the call, since all calls leaving the ship go through the central switchboard.

"Based on that, and considering the limitation of the vows I took, I will confirm that sometime in the past week I had a conversation with someone aboard the Big Stick, someone who was in some way involved in a string of assaults on sailors of that ship, who got spooked by the death of Petty Officer Ferrara, and who was having second thoughts about continuing his mission. He mentioned the next target was someone NCIS had aboard asking questions, said the attack was imminent, and he was afraid it would compromise them. After that call, I started making arrangements to move up a planned trip to Washington so I could warn you in person.

"I am not going to tell you who I talked to, and I am not going to give you anything more to help you identify him. I wish I could, but I can't."

The men fell silent again. Around them, the lunch crowd was swelling. The waitress, seeing they were finished eating, came to gather their dishes and offer dessert. When they both declined, she refilled their coffee cups and left them alone again.

"You approve of what they're doing?" Gibbs asked when she'd gone.

"No," Hatton said immediately. Then he continued: "I understand it, though."

"You do?" Gibbs asked with raised brow.

"Of course I do. I understand the marginalization, the fear of the unknown, the desire to hold on to what you believe is right. This country is steadily moving toward center. Apathy is destroying us. When something you believe so strongly in is challenged, I understand the desire to strike out, to stop the change any way you can. Doesn't mean I think they're doing the right thing. Doesn't mean I wish I couldn't just put a name on a post-it and slip it to you."

"So why don't you? I'll never tell." Gibbs smiled a little to soften the words. Hatton sighed again.

"It's important, you know. To stick to a code, even when it's inconvenient."

"Especially when it's inconvenient," Gibbs added. Hatton nodded.

"The vows I took were a covenant between me and God. They are as important to me as Semper Fi," Hatton said. "Can you understand that much?"

"Yes," Gibbs said. "I don't like it, but I understand. Can you talk to him again, convince him to give me something? See if he's interested in a deal?" He mentally cringed as he said it. O'Sullivan had been an exception to his general policy of never making deals unless it was truly his only choice.

Hatton shook his head, but it was in resignation this time, not denial. "I don't know, Gunny. He wasn't looking for a way out. He was just... trying to reconcile what happened to Petty Officer Ferrara with his own beliefs."

"So what counsel did you give him?" Gibbs asked.

"I told him it needed to stop. That what they were doing was not a holy mission. I reminded him that punishing sinners was a job reserved for God. 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.' I told him he could not receive absolution if he intended to repeat the sin. I advised him that in order to receive a full measure of God's forgiveness, he should turn himself in."

"You think he's going to?" Gibbs asked.

"Not likely. He still believes strongly in what they're doing. Still thinks it's the most expeditious way of purging the Navy of those who would destroy it. But he did seem open to further conversations. If I talk to him again, I'll try a little harder to convince him. It's the best I can do."

Gibbs nodded. It might be the best Hatton could do, but there had to be something else.

* * *

to be continued...


	25. Part 23

**One Less - Part 23**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

After dropping Hatton off at the Pentagon – his original reason for flying to D.C. – Gibbs headed back to the Navy Yard. Hatton had given him some information he might be able to use, but damned if he knew how, yet. The most important item was Holbrook. Hatton was certain they weren't planning on moving on him while the ship was still in port. Which meant they didn't need to remove the sailor yet. But Gibbs certainly needed to get him to back off.

He was opening his phone to call DiNozzo when it rang. He glanced away from the road to check the caller ID. An unfamiliar D.C. number. He hit the answer button.

"How come you didn't tell me there's a reward?" Nicky's voice came over the line. He sounded a little miffed.

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"If there's a reward, how come you didn't tell me? Or wait, is that what you already gave me? The new clothes and stuff?"

"Nicky, what are you talking about?" Gibbs asked. He pressed the button on the dash to send the conversation into speakerphone mode and cradled the phone.

"The sign says there's a reward for more information. How come you didn't tell me?"

Gibbs was confused. A sign. Promising a reward. For what?

"You saw a sign promising a reward for information," Gibbs clarified. "On what?"

"The sailor's murder, that's what."

That made no sense. Gibbs frowned. "Where's the sign?" he asked.

"It's on the bulletin board at Father McKenna's."

Gibbs knew the place. It was a day-time drop-in center for homeless men that offered showers, laundry, mailbox service, and social opportunities. And lunch, of course. It was about five miles from the Yard, in the same neighborhood as the motel Nicky'd been staying in.

"Are you there now?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes. There's a phone they let people use inside."

"Stay there. I'll be there in 10 minutes," Gibbs said.

"Okay," Nicky said. "Hey, have you had lunch? They've still got some left. But not much. Maybe not any in 10 minutes. You want me to save you some?"

For a second, Gibbs had to smile. Sack lunch from Father McKenna's, complete with Bible tract and blessing. Yeah, he could see it.

"Nah, I already ate. See you soon." He clicked off and changed directions. On the way, he completed the call to DiNozzo, but got no answer. He left a message – Call me. Now. – and tried Tony's personal cell, with the same result. He briefly wondered why DiNozzo would be away from both cells, but figured he'd try again in half an hour. Gibbs didn't think the NCIS office was deep enough in the ship to block transmission, but it might be.

Nicky was standing outside the red brick building, blowing clouds of condensation into the air and shifting from foot to foot impatiently in the cold. The overcast was thick, but not heavy enough to mean snow tonight. Maybe a day or two before the next storm, Gibbs thought. Nicky was wearing the jacket they'd bought him, his mask and beanie in place. Gibbs parked in a red zone in front and climbed out.

"Hey Gunny, it's good to see you again," Nicky said in greeting. "Did you sleep good last night?" Gibbs pulled at his coat to be sure his holstered sidearm was well out of sight and stepped up onto the curb.

"Show me this sign you saw."

Nicky led the way into the building. There was a hallway leading directly down the center, with rooms on both sides. Just inside to the right was a large open room with groupings of couches and chairs, a television, a small library, and several tables. Through a pass-through window, Gibbs could see men and women making sandwiches in a large kitchen. Half a dozen men were standing around the window waiting. Another 20 or so were seated in various places around the room eating, reading, or watching the television. Some looked up when they came in. A few looked at him suspiciously. One got up and hurried out of the room. Gibbs' appearance and bearing didn't scream 'cop,' but the street people could pick one out of any crowd. Gibbs tried his best to look friendly and non-threatening. Nicky just ignored them.

"Can I help you, officer?" A priest called to them from the kitchen as they passed the window. Several of the men waiting for lunch looked around.

"He's with me," Nicky said, and kept moving. Gibbs smiled.

"No problems, Padre. Promise."

The priest nodded, but Gibbs felt the man's eyes on his back as they crossed the room to a large bulletin board. It was covered with dozens of multi-colored flyers and posters. There were announcements about upcoming events at the nearby church and in the neighborhood, self-help groups, help wanted ads, rooms for rent (cheap), and various items for sale.

"Here," Nicky said and pointed to a piece of white paper tacked to the lower corner of the board. In large black letters across the top of the flyer was the word 'Reward.' Gibbs pushed another ad out of the way and read the rest. 'For information about the murder of a U.S. Navy Sailor in an abandoned storage facility on Florida Avenue and First Northeast last Saturday night. All information kept in strict confidence. No names required. Call the Naval Criminal Investigative Service at...'

"So how come you didn't tell me there was a reward?" Nicky asked. "I mean, I came in because I wanted to do the right thing, but if you were going to pay money, I could always use it."

"It wasn't us, Nicky." Gibbs fished a pair of latex gloves out of his coat pocket and put them on, then pulled the notice off the board. The chances that whoever had put this up here had left fingerprints behind was small, but Abby had done some amazing things for them in the past.

"What do you mean, it wasn't you? It says NCIS, right there on the bottom," Nicky said and pointed to the flyer.

"It's not our number. We don't offer rewards this early in an investigation."

Nicky's eyes widened and he drew in a fast breath. "It was the Marines, wasn't it? They're looking for me, aren't they?"

Gibbs shrugged, his mind already past that to thoughts of how they could use it to their advantage. "Could be." He turned back toward the kitchen. The priest had come out and was watching them from a few feet away.

"Did you see who put up this notice?" Gibbs asked him, holding up the flyer.

"A young sailor came around yesterday afternoon, asked if he could put it up," the priest said with a strong Boston accent. "I didn't see any harm in it."

"Did he say why he wanted to put it here?"

"Sure. He said they were looking for a potential witness among my people." He shrugged. "As you know, officer, people on the street see much, and are often willing to tell what they know when treated with dignity and respect."

Gibbs nodded. He carefully folded the paper in quarters and slid it into his inside breast pocket. He stripped off the gloves and pulled out his ID.

"Gibbs, NCIS. The sailor who brought this in. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

The priest gave a 'maybe, maybe not' kind of shrug. "Perhaps. He was an average-looking sailor, wearing an overcoat. Can't say I caught his rank."

"Was he alone?"

"He came in alone."

"Do you know if he put these up anywhere else?"

He shook his head at that. "I don't get around much. There's too much to do here. I assume by your questions that there's some problem with the sailor?"

"He's not what he claims to be. If you see him, or any other members of the Navy in here in the next couple days, would you call me right away?" Gibbs took out his card.

"Certainly." He took the card and paused, looking at it. "Has this sailor brought trouble to my parish?"

"No. He's probably looking for my friend here," Gibbs said, gesturing to Nicky. Nicky's eyes widened under his mask. "He undoubtedly put these up all over D.C. Call me if you hear from him."

"Very well. Go with God," he said, and waved a blessing at Gibbs and Nicky. Gibbs nodded his thanks, and ushered Nicky outside.

"Well, I guess you're with me again, Nicky," Gibbs said. Nicky followed him to the sedan. Gibbs called the Navy Yard and talked to McGee. Mentally putting Nicky's warehouse at the center of a two-mile radius, he divided the area into rough thirds and sent both Ziva and McGee out to search as many homeless haunts as they could find for more of the flyers.

Gibbs and Nicky spent the next hour and a half wandering in the area Gibbs had assigned himself. They found another dozen of the flyers posted in soup kitchens, churches, hypothermia shelters, and the Rescue Mission. Gibbs used a plastic evidence bag from his trunk for each flyer, hoping they'd find something that would give them a lead on who'd been putting them out there. Unlike the DNA profiles of members of the Navy, fingerprint records were open to all. If they could get one good print off any of the flyers, Abby would match it.

Gibbs tried DiNozzo again three times while they were out. He got voicemail every time. He was on the verge of calling the NCIS office aboard and having him located, but held off. Fredrick would undoubtedly be curious and probably start asking DiNozzo questions he wasn't prepared to answer. The theory that Tony was just too deep in the ship to have reception was looking more plausible. That better be what it was.

He called the BX on the way back in. Gregor seemed pleased to hear that Nicky was once again available and told Gibbs to send him on over. After dropping him off, Gibbs took the stack of evidence bags and a Caf-Pow down to Abby.

"Hey, Gibbs, long time no see," Abby said after she'd lowered her music.

"Need you to print these," Gibbs said and handed her the bags and the cup.

"What are they?" she asked. She slapped the cup down on the counter and peered through the plastic at the top flyer.

"Someone's trying to help?" Abby asked after she read the flyer and before Gibbs could answer.

"Doubt it," Gibbs replied.

"Did you call the number?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"Where'd they come from?"

"Homeless haunts in D.C."

"They're looking for Nicky," Abby said. God, she was quick.

"That's my guess."

"Is he safe?"

"Yep."

"Good," she nodded in satisfaction.

"Had any luck with Ferrara's flash thingy yet?" Gibbs asked. Abby glared at him in fond exasperation.

"Flash thingy? Have I taught you nothing, Gibbs? It's a flash drive."

"Whatever. You get into it yet?" It felt good, Gibbs thought, to tease her a little. He missed it when they were caught up in a case.

"Not yet," she said with a frown. "I've tried everything I can think of, but it's just being stubborn."

"You tried a hammer?"

"Gibbs!" she cried in mock dismay.

"Works for me," he said, and started out. "Let me know…"

"If I get something," she cut him off. "Will do." He waved back at her as he left.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

DiNozzo came across the report on Goetz's assault two hours after lunch. He'd been working through the crime reports backwards from present day, and he knew he was approaching it. He thought he'd come up with a good plan on how to move this thing along, and by the time he found the file, he was ready. He hoped.

"What was this about?" he asked, and across the room, Fredrick looked up.

"What?"

"Master Chief Corpsman Ian Goetz? Unsolved assault?"

"Oh, that," Fredrick said. "Last spring, when we were in Greece. Someone tortured him." Fredrick shook his head. "Nasty business."

"No leads?" DiNozzo asked, flipping to the investigation summary page and not looking up.

"Nope. He didn't remember enough to give us anywhere to start. There were three DNA samples, but they got us nowhere." Fredrick shrugged. "Not much you can do without a lead."

"You work it alone?"

"No. The Resident Agent in Souda Bay and an agent from Force Protection Athens took the lead, along with the Hellenic Police – their feds. They ran the DNA through their criminal database, rounded up the usual suspects, put an ear to the ground to see if anyone was bragging about attacking a U.S. Sailor, searched what passes for the local pawn shops for his missing ring. Nada."

"What kind of ring was he wearing?" DiNozzo asked. He knew the answer, from the report he'd read before coming aboard, but he asked anyway. It would be expected.

"Master Chief Signet Ring. There's a picture of it in the file." DiNozzo flipped through the folder until he found it. It was a grainy blow-up of Goetz's left hand, the ring on his second finger. Clues in the spaces around his hand told DiNozzo the original picture had been taken while he was at a formal event: He was holding a glass of red wine and his cuff was the jacket of his dress whites. The ring stood out against his tanned skin and the darkness of the wine. It was heavy white and yellow gold, with four diamonds on each side of a replica of the Master Chief Petty Officer collar insignia. It was a very handsome ring, and DiNozzo wondered where Goetz had gotten it from.

"Good looking ring," DiNozzo said.

"It never turned up. Probably melted down soon after the attack."

"Hmm," DiNozzo said. He read the report until he came to the part about the 'One Less' note.

"Make any sense out of the note in his pocket?" he asked. Fredrick looked over his shoulder as DiNozzo held up a photocopy of the note. He shook his head.

"Nope. We floated a theory about the locals being upset by Naval presence in Crete. There'd been a few incidents the last time a ship docked, some sailors drunk and out of control. There was a feeling that the note was a commentary on one less sailor walking the streets." Frederick shrugged. "Didn't go anywhere."

"You know, that sounds familiar," DiNozzo said and made a show of thinking hard. "There was another unsolved… something I read from couple years ago…" He frowned, tapped his index finger on his front teeth, then looked up at Fredrick.

"Mind if I use your computer?" he asked.

"Knock yourself out," Fredrick said, and shrunk the word processing file he was working with to clear the screen. He let Tony take his place in front of the computer. DiNozzo started typing, doing a global search of open case files using the 'One Less' phrase. In less than a minute, he was looking at the list Abby had found of the four cases prior to Ferrara's where the note had been left.

"Well damn, check this out," he said, putting on his best 'surprised' voice. He turned to watch as Fredrick looked at the list of case names.

Either he was an Oscar-quality actor, or the list didn't mean anything to Fredrick. There was no flicker of recognition, no tensing of muscles showing he was hiding something, not even a purely physiological reaction of dilating pupils, increased respirations or sudden sweat.

"What is it?" he asked. DiNozzo gave him just a little more.

"Four unsolved assault cases in the last four years where the victim was found with a note in his pocket reading 'One Less'," he said, and waited.

Fredrick looked again. "That can't be right. I… I knew those men. All of them. Look out," he lightly shoved DiNozzo, who stood and got out of the way. Fredrick dropped into the chair and starting opening the computer files, one by one. In each, the search terms were highlighted, making finding the references easy.

There was shocked silence in the small room as Frederick scanned the reports.

"How the hell could I have missed this?" Fredrick asked. DiNozzo remained silent. "I mean, I knew they'd all been assaulted, but I didn't know…" He turned in his chair to look at Tony. "That's why you're here."

"You didn't know?" DiNozzo asked, sidestepping the question for the moment.

"I swear I didn't. The only one of these cases I had any direct involvement on was Lt. Brisbin. I did the initial interview with him when he returned to the ship. All the others were handled by the local agents. I just rubber-stamped the reports." He searched Tony's face. "I swear to God, I didn't know about the notes."

"How could you not?" DiNozzo asked quietly.

"Look." He snatched up the file DiNozzo had been looking at and opened it. "Master Chief Goetz was picked up on the street by the local ambulance, taken to a hospital in Crete. The resident agent interviewed him there, did all the evidence collection and shipped it to NCIS Europe. I never saw it. They sent me their report summary, which I signed and forwarded with his personal belongings to Ramstein."

He turned back to the computer and opened the file on Hutchinson's attack. He scanned the summary page. "I didn't work this one at all. We were home, in Norfolk. The locals picked him up, and Major Case worked it. My signature is on the report, but only because he was removed from duty and as Agent Afloat, I had to sign that I was aware of the criminal circumstances.

"And Major Ortiz. He never made it back here. We sailed before he was found. I did the missing persons investigation, but by the time he turned up, it was out of my hands. When the report showed up a week later, I signed it and sent it on. I don't spend much time reading old reports. Especially when they're not my problem anymore. When these sailors left the ship, they were out of my jurisdiction. Someone else was taking care of them and there was no more reason for me to be involved."

"So you didn't notice that all these cases went cold?" DiNozzo asked.

"They're not the only ones. Sailors getting into it with the locals in foreign ports isn't exactly unusual. We're there a couple days, then we move on. If a crime isn't solved while we're there, there's not a lot of follow-up. Unsolved cases are the rule, not the exception. We must leave at least 20 minor crimes unsolved every cruise we take."

"These aren't exactly minor," DiNozzo said.

Fredrick waved a hand in agitation. "I know. But they were just more of the same stupid stuff, you know? Drunks getting mugged? It happens all the time. All the time. It's why the Navy has a Shore Patrol. The severity of the injuries was unusual, but not unheard of. This battle group's got more than 7,000 men and women attached to it. People get stupid, people get hurt. All the time," he emphasized.

He turned back to DiNozzo again. "As for Lt. Brisbin, it was what, two years ago? You know how many assaults I've worked since them? Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Testosterone and American Navy pride are a wicked combination. Add in alcohol when we make port, and I'm surprised it doesn't happen more often. The case went cold, I never gave it another thought. And I certainly didn't connect it to any of the others."

DiNozzo knew there was one more thing he had to hit Fredrick with before he could look Gibbs in the eye and tell him Fredrick wasn't involved. He took a breath.

"Ferrara had one of the notes in his pocket, too," DiNozzo said.

Under his dark skin, Fredrick paled. His eyes widened, his mouth opened – he seemed about to say something – then snapped shut again. His shoulders sagged and his hands dropped into his lap. He looked at the screen, then up at DiNozzo.

"It's the same people, doing it to all of them, isn't it?" Fredrick asked. DiNozzo nodded.

"It's people from our carrier group," Fredrick said, then clarified. "People from this ship." Again, DiNozzo just nodded.

"And for some reason they targeted Ferrara, followed him when he left the ship on Saturday, and killed him."

"That's the theory," DiNozzo said.

Fredrick fell silent, taking measured breaths in and out of his nose, like a runner trying to get his breathing under control at the end of a race.

"Is it just those four, or have there been others?" he asked.

"We've identified 12 in the past seven years."

"Twelve?" Fredrick's voice was strangled. "The same skells beat 12 of my shipmates and I missed it? Did they all have the notes?"

"Only those four before Ferrara. The others were just unsolved assaults from this ship with common victim types."

Another period of silence. DiNozzo could see the wheels turning.

"Who's we?" he finally asked.

"What?" DiNozzo said. It wasn't what he'd expected Fredrick to ask.

"You said 'we've' identified 12. Who's we?"

DiNozzo stuck out his hand. "Anthony DiNozzo. Major Case. Nice to meet you."

Fredrick frowned and didn't take the hand. "Why are you here? And why'd you lie about your name?" DiNozzo let his hand drop.

"I work with Gibbs. If you were involved, we didn't want you checking up on me and finding that out."

"Involved?" Fredrick said, like the word was foreign to him. "You thought I was involved? In doing this? To my own men?"

"You didn't file the missing report on Ferrara. You're in the best position to have been covering up the connections between the attacks. And you were in the best position to raise the alarm when the series of unsolveds got large, but you didn't."

"I didn't know," Fredrick said again. He looked across the compartment, eyes at middle distance. "God, what have I done?"

DiNozzo let that hang for a minute. He figured Gibbs would want him to. He went to his own chair and sat down, watching Fredrick trying to get his mind around the situation.

"I did check up on you, on DiNardo," Fredrick finally said, his gaze not refocusing. "I knew this was no report audit. But your – his – personnel file was air tight. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what you were doing here. I'd pretty much settled on it just being Gibbs yanking my chain. They tell me that's just the kind of bastard he is. But then, you would know that."

"I've heard," DiNozzo said mildly. "And I'll be sure to congratulate Abby on her fine work with the personnel file."

"Abby Sciuto?" Fredrick said, frowning but still looking past him. "Forensics at the Navy Yard?" When DiNozzo nodded, he smiled. "I've heard she's a piece of work, too."

DiNozzo let that slide. Frederick kept staring past DiNozzo at the far wall.

Finally, he sighed. "So what do we do now?" Fredrick asked.

"Convince Gibbs it's not you, then figure out who it is."

That brought Fredrick's attention back to DiNozzo. "Wait a minute. If you thought it was me, how come you didn't rule me out with an alibi check? I don't always go ashore when we dock. Surely I've got an alibi for at least a few of the attacks?"

DiNozzo shrugged. "It's a conspiracy. Someone's pulling the strings. Someone's covering it up. You could have alibied out for every attack and still been involved."

Another pause and DiNozzo waited for what he knew had to be coming. It was one of the only questions left.

"What's the motive?" Fredrick asked. When DiNozzo didn't immediately answer, he elaborated. "Why would anyone want to attack and kill sailors from this carrier?"

"They're going after a specific victim type," DiNozzo said.

"What, Navy men on shore leave?"

"No. It's specific. Something besides the Roosevelt that all 12 men had in common."

"So what is it?" Fredrick asked. DiNozzo shook his head and made a motion of apology.

"Until Gibbs clears you, it's 'need to know.' You can probably figure it out on your own if you look hard enough. But I've got to call this in."

Tony pulled out the agency cell. He glanced at the screen. No service.

"I'm going topside. Take a look at the files, see what you find. I'll be right back."

As he passed through mid-decks, both of DiNozzo's cells beeped simultaneously. Service restored, then, messages waiting. Four messages on the agency cell. Damn, he hoped they weren't all from Gibbs. His own cell showed six missed calls. Damn again.

DiNozzo checked the agency cell first. Gibbs, Gibbs, and Gibbs twice more. Each with an increasing level of frustration in DiNozzo's failure to respond. DiNozzo was glad he had something to tell his Boss. It might get him a bit of a reprieve.

Gibbs answered on the second ring.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.

"Having a very enlightening conversation with Fredrick. He's definitely not involved."

"You got proof?" Gibbs asked.

"Proof enough. Of the four assaults with the notes before Ferrara, he only actually worked Lt. Brisbin. He says he just signed off on the others and sent them on."

"You believe him?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes," DiNozzo said with all the confidence he would muster. "He had no idea. Apparently unsolved assaults in foreign ports aren't that out of the ordinary. The only thing unusual about our grouping was the level of violence. But since he wasn't working them, he never made any connection."

"What about Ferrara? Why didn't he report him missing?"

"He said earlier that there'd been something bothering Ferrara for awhile, that he wasn't happy. Fredrick said he honestly figured the kid just walked away."

"He have any theory on why he was unhappy?"

"Nothing specific. He said scuttlebutt had it he was tired of being a secretary. He also said Ferrara's orientation was known onboard."

"By who?" Gibbs asked.

"Apparently more than one person. I haven't asked yet. I can't really, without giving away the motive."

There was a pause. DiNozzo filled the silence.

"I want to bring him in, Gibbs. He's really wrecked over this. He knows the crew of this ship, knows who knows what. He's a good guy. I think he'd be able to help."

"DiNozzo, I did not send you over there to make friends," Gibbs said, exasperated.

"I know, Boss. But he's got insight it'd take me months to find. He's alright. Trust me," DiNozzo wheedled.

"If he screws up, I'm taking it out on you," Gibbs warned finally. DiNozzo grinned to himself.

"I'd expect nothing less."

"He's got to make peace with Capt. McNally before you bring him in. If the Skipper doesn't want him working on this, he's out. Got it?"

"Fair enough."

Gibbs moved on to what he'd been told about the danger Holbrook was in and why.

"I didn't tell him to do that," DiNozzo said when he was finished. "He said he wanted to help, I told him I'd get back to him."

"Apparently he decided on his own. Call him off, then keep an eye on him. They know now. We might as well take advantage of it," Gibbs said.

"You going to use him as bait?" DiNozzo asked, a little surprised.

"My source says they won't move on him until the next port. But if they're focused on him, they're not likely to go looking for another target. At least that way it's under control."

"Understood."

"Oh, and one more thing." Gibbs told him about the flyers Nicky had found.

"You're kidding me. They're pretending to be us?" DiNozzo said. "You call the number yet?"

"Not yet. I'll let you know. And DiNozzo?"

"Yes Boss?"

"Never be unreachable."

"Yes, Boss," DiNozzo said, but he was talking to dead air.

* * *

to be continued...

Feedback welcome, and greatly appreciated. Lemme know whatcha think, will ya?


	26. Part 24

**Warning: There be whumping here**

Small Disclaimer: For those of you who may have technical knowledge of the tool I use in this section - and subsequently the rest of the story - I'm sorry. I wrote this scene based on a layman television watcher's understanding of its effect, and by the time I did the research and discovered I was WAY overestimating what the tool was capable of, I was too in love with the scene to go back. So, when you comment (and PLEASE DO comment), please don't explain how wrong I got it. Suspend your disbelief and go with it... I think you'll enjoy it.

* * *

**One Less - Part 24**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs decided to forego talking to the guy in Baltimore for now. They didn't have enough to arrest him, and he didn't want to tip the guy off if they weren't ready to bring him in. The focus now was on the flyers, and whoever had posted them.

Ziva and McGee had returned with 30 flyers between them. Whoever it was had blanketed the homeless spots in Southeast. Abby was still in the process of printing them, but she reported she'd found sixteen good prints so far. She was running each print through AFIS as she found it. So far, nothing Navy.

McGee traced the number from the flyer. It was a burn phone, activated only two days before. There was no way to know who'd bought it. After giving it some thought and tossing around ideas in the bullpen, they'd decided Gibbs would call the number, responding to the flyers as if he was a witness hoping for the reward. They wouldn't claim to be Nicky, but they'd give whoever it was enough information that they'd have to bite. Gibbs decided they had to go tonight: All hands were to be aboard by 1600 hours tomorrow afternoon for the Saturday shove off, and no one would be allowed to leave the ship after that.

McGee gathered the equipment they'd need and they drove to a payphone on a street corner in Southeast. The caller ID and the ambient noise had to be right, just in case these guys were smarter than the average dirtbag.

Gibbs watched impatiently while McGee set up the payphone to record both sides of the conversation. The headache was back, and it was not helping his mood. When McGee pronounced he was ready, Gibbs made a test call to Ziva's cell. It worked perfectly. With all systems go, Gibbs dialed the number from the flyer.

"NCIS," came the response after three rings. McGee, listening through headphones attached to a laptop, gave Gibbs the thumbs up.

"Um, yeah, is this where I call for the reward?" Gibbs asked in a voice pitched slightly higher than his own.

"This is the place. Do you know something about the sailor's death?" The voice had no accent, nothing to distinguish it. Gibbs could hear nothing in the background.

"Maybe, yeah, I think I do," he said. "How much is the reward?" He figured that would be the first question they would expect a legitimate witness to ask.

"Depends on what you saw. What's your name?"

"Leroy," Gibbs said.

"Leroy what?"

"Uh... the sign said no names."

"That's alright, Leroy. We don't need your last name. What information do you have for us?"

"I saw it. The whole thing," Gibbs said.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was there, in the warehouse. I saw the three guys who did it. Killed the guy. Only I didn't know he was a sailor. He sure didn't look like one." Gibbs tried to mimic Nicky's fast, short way of talking. It had sold him.

"Could you identify the three men if you saw them again?"

"Maybe, yeah, probably," Gibbs said. "If you show me some pictures or something?"

"We could do that. We'd sure like to talk to you in person. Can we meet somewhere?"

"Uh, okay, I guess. Will you bring the reward?" Gibbs asked.

"We sure will."

"Okay. Can you come tonight? I kind of need some money."

"Sure, we can do that. How about at the warehouse where it happened? Can you meet us there? Say, around 8:00?"

"Uh, yeah, okay. That's okay. How will I know it's you?" Gibbs asked.

"My partner and I will be there around 8:00. If you're there, you'll see us. We'll call your name."

"Okay. Be sure to call for Leroy. I don't know if anyone else will be there, and I sure don't want anyone else to get my money. Okay?"

"Okay. We'll look for you."

"Okay. Bye," Gibbs said, and hung up the phone.

"So what now, Boss?" McGee asked as he cut the recording.

"Now we see what falls into the trap."

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

Gibbs was sitting alone in the dark on the first landing of Nicky's warehouse. He'd stashed Nicky at the motel, parked McGee up on the roof of the building where he could see incoming vehicles, and placed Ziva in the doorway of a long-abandoned liquor store across from the warehouse's man door. Ziva and McGee had flipped for choice of the two outside assignments. Gibbs had chosen the inside position for himself. Part of it was selfish, Gibbs knew. He'd been spending far too much time on his feet this week and his knees were killing him. He would have spent the time walking around outside if he'd had to, but he was glad this option had been available. Plus, there was another reason: He wanted his face to be the first the dirtbags saw, if they showed up at all.

They'd arrived at the warehouse more than two hours before the scheduled meet and set up surveillance in several points around it. Gibbs wanted them to be in place early in case a counter-sting was planned. They'd seen nothing suspicious. Gibbs, wearing an old, beat-up khaki jacket and a black watch cap, had moved into the warehouse at 7:30 and taken up position on the stairs. But the meet time had come and gone twenty minutes before and so far, nothing.

"Ziva. Status," he said softly into the mike on his collar.

"Quiet," Ziva replied immediately. She was huddled under a worn Army blanket, just another homeless person trying to ward off the cold.

"Copy that," Gibbs said. "McGee?"

"Code four," McGee said, police shorthand for 'all is well.' His voice betrayed a slight shiver. McGee had the position more exposed to the weather. He'd won the toss, and Gibbs knew he'd chosen the colder spot intentionally. It was his way of apologizing for stealing Ziva's thunder with her Radkoff interrogation.

Gibbs adjusted his position and stretched his legs. Nicky had told them that most of the people who passed through the cold storage warehouse came in a little after nightfall. He seemed to have known what he was talking about: Since they'd arrived almost two hours after dark, only two people had come in. Both had seen him sitting on the stairs. One had immediately turned away. The other had hesitated, then at Gibbs' silent invitation, squeezed past him and disappeared up into the building. McGee had watched through binoculars as the one who left moved down the block and found another place to hunker down. Not their contact.

Before coming inside, Gibbs had called DiNozzo. Tony reported that Fredrick had met with McNally for half an hour. Shortly after, the Captain had called DiNozzo in and informed them that he would be taking no action against Fredrick at this time. Fredrick knew it was a second chance, and he was pleased to get it. DiNozzo had then shared with Fredrick the apparent motive for the attacks, and what they'd done so far. Fredrick had seemed stunned by the connections: he'd had no idea any of the other victims had been gay. DiNozzo read him as truthful. Fredrick had known about Ferrara, but it really had just been because of shipboard gossip. He – like so many others in this case – wasn't particularly comfortable with the thought of sharing quarters with a gay man, but certainly had no interest in hurting anyone to get rid of them. The two agents had then sat down to go over the details of all 12 cases. Fredrick had suggested some things they'd already tried, then come up with a few new ideas they could pursue on board.

DiNozzo had ended the call by saying that once again, Holbrook was working the swing shift and DiNozzo wouldn't be able to talk to him until his day was done at 2300 hours. He'd call Gibbs with an update before he went to bed.

Just before 8:30, almost half an hour behind schedule, a car pulled up alongside the building and parked. McGee had warned them it was coming, and Gibbs heard it arrive just as Ziva advised him of its presence. He told them both he copied, put his hand around the grip of his Sig inside the right pocket of his jacket, and got ready to move. Two men got out of the car, Ziva reported, heading for the door. McGee reported no additional vehicles in sight then started down through the building. Their plan called for him to stay out of sight until and unless Gibbs called for him. After the suspects entered the warehouse, Ziva was to move across the street and take up position right outside the man door, careful to stay at an angle so the street light behind her wouldn't throw her shadow ahead and broadcast her position. She would enter on signal.

The door opened, letting the street light stream into the open space. Two men stepped through and there was a pause, likely as their eyes adjusted to the light. Gibbs sat frozen on the steps. Waiting.

"Leroy?" one of them called. Showtime. Gibbs slid a step lower so they'd be able to see him and peered down the short stairway. From this distance, with the light behind them, their features were hidden. Gibbs could see they were both wearing dark pants and short dark jackets. The shorter of the two was wearing a baseball cap, the taller bareheaded, his regulation haircut barely showing in the darkness. Ballcap had his gloved hands loose at his sides. The taller man had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

"Who's there?" Gibbs asked loudly. He pitched his voice up again, to match what he'd used during the phone call.

"Are you Leroy?" the one who'd spoken – Ballcap – moved ahead of his partner, both coming toward the stairs. Gibbs could tell one thing about them immediately: They weren't expecting trouble. They moved directly toward him on a straight angle, leaving their backs exposed to the door they'd left open behind them. There was none of the caution they should be showing as combatants in potentially hostile territory. Or maybe they just didn't perceive him to be a threat.

"Who's asking?" he said. Gibbs shifted his weight forward, his left hand braced against the wall. He was ready to push to his feet but he hesitated, wanting them closer.

"NCIS. You called, said you knew something about the attack on the sailor last weekend?" The second man had yet to speak. They continued to move toward him.

The fact that they'd identified themselves falsely as members of the Service was enough all by itself to bring them in for questioning, put them in interrogation and work them for awhile. Watching the careless way they moved, Gibbs figured it wouldn't take long. He stood and took a step down. In his ear, Ziva quietly announced she was right outside the door.

"Stop there," Gibbs said. His voice was soft, with none of the command that would usually accompany such an order. He kept his left hand on the wall, his right in his pocket on the gun. The sailors stopped, one still ahead of the other.

"It's alright," Ballcap said. "It's a really great thing that you called us. Why don't you come down. We'll go for coffee, you can tell us what you saw."

"Sounds okay," Gibbs said. He took another step down. He kept his hand on his gun, and his eyes on the second man, whose hands were still hidden. It was impossible to tell what – if anything – he had in his pockets, but Gibbs' gut and common sense told him to be cautious.

When he reached the bottom of the steps, Gibbs stopped and took a breath. He was less than 10 feet from the lead man.

"Wait. How do I know you're really from NCIS. You have ID?" he asked.

"Sure," the first man said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open, showing a UN military ID card. It was too far away to read.

"Let me see," Gibbs said, and Ballcap took two steps forward, holding the wallet at arm's length. Close enough.

"That's a nice ID," Gibbs said. "But you've got a problem."

"Oh?" the man said with a curious half-smile.

"Yeah. You don't have one of these," he said in his own voice. He dipped the first two fingers of his left hand into his neckline. Both men watched as he snagged the beaded chain around his neck and pulled out his badge. He took advantage of their small distraction and drew his Sig, not pointing it at anyone, yet.

"Gibbs. NCIS. Really," he said. That was the signal. He saw Ziva turn through the doorway at the opposite end of the warehouse and move quickly toward them. Her own weapon was drawn and ready.

"I'm going to need to see your hands," Gibbs added conversationally and stepped closer to Ballcap. They were only a stride apart now. The bareheaded man was five feet behind and slightly to Gibbs' left.

Ballcap blatantly telegraphed his intent and Gibbs dropped his badge, bringing his gun to bear just as Ballcap started to turn.

"Don't," Gibbs ordered. Ballcap got only half way around before he saw Ziva and froze. The second man, hands still in pockets, looked back and forth between his partner and Gibbs.

"Hands. Now," Gibbs said more forcefully.

"Wait," the second man spoke for the first time. "I've got something you need to see." It was the voice from the phone call.

Gibbs looked at him for a moment, then nodded once. "Slowly," he said. Gibbs watched carefully as the second man started to pull something out of his pocket. It was the wrong shape to be a gun, more square than long. It snagged, and he brought his right hand over to untangle whatever it was from the edge of his pocket.

From where Ziva was standing, she couldn't see what the second man was doing. Which meant only Gibbs realized what was about to happen as the bareheaded man finally untangled his hand from his pocket. He showed Gibbs a fist-sized canister held loosely in his left hand, and a small ring with a wire and tag attached hanging from his right index finger. Then he flicked his wrist and tossed the canister over his shoulder toward Ziva.

"Incoming!" Gibbs shouted at Ziva, even as almost-forgotten training kicked in. He had subconsciously begun the count as soon as he realized that the second man had pulled the pin on a flash-bang grenade. He had five to ten seconds, depending on how the unit was constructed. Time seemed to slow down, everything happening at half speed. At three count, Gibbs took one long step forward and grabbed Ballcap's jacket in one fist as he started to turn away. In the same move, he stuffed his Sig into his waistband at the small of his back. At four count, he jerked the man toward himself, grabbing more of the jacket with his other hand and spinning them both toward the steps. The man was smaller than Gibbs, but he put up a struggle. At six count, Gibbs dug in, pulling the man in tight toward himself even as he used his greater body weight to shove them both toward the ground. The man flailed as he fell. Gibbs landed heavily on top of him, slamming the back of his head into the concrete. The baseball cap flew off. Gibbs did it again, knocking him out. Seven seconds after the pin was pulled, Gibbs closed his eyes, burying his face in the unconscious man's jacket and pressing the cloth in tight to ensure his eyes were completely sheltered. He turned his head slightly to press one ear against his shoulder. At eight seconds, the flash bang detonated.

There was a tremendous noise and a flash of light that Gibbs saw a fraction of even through the thick material covering his eyes. He felt the concussion of the blast hit him, stealing his breath for a moment. Then a ringing in his ears – worse in his uncovered left ear than his right – rose to block out all other sound. Gibbs pushed up onto his knees, straddling the man he'd been lying on, and looked over his shoulder at the open area of the warehouse. He'd escaped the worst of the flash. He could clearly see that the second man was gone, and that Ziva was lying on her side on the floor, her gun on the concrete fifteen feet away. He shouted her name, but he couldn't even hear his own voice over the ringing and doubted she'd been able to adequately protect herself. In any event, she didn't respond. He wanted to run to her, but first things first. He called for McGee to get down here, now, and turned back to the downed man, reaching for his cuffs.

Gibbs wasn't sure how long the man would be unconscious, but he was taking no chances. He looked around for something to secure the man to. There was nothing close. He stood, shaky from the effect of the blast on his ears, and dragged the guy to the closest of the fifteen or so upright steel supports that held up the floors above. He wrangled the unresisting body around so he could cuff his hands behind his back around the pole. That ought to do it. Gibbs quickly frisked him for weapons. A pocket knife in his pants went into Gibbs' jacket, but he was otherwise clean. Satisfied he was no threat, Gibbs stood and reached Ziva in three long strides. He leaned down and pressed his fingers against her neck, checking for a pulse.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

When Gibbs yelled 'incoming,' Ziva felt an immediate surge of adrenalin. Not knowing exactly what the man had thrown, it cost her two precious seconds to follow the flight of the object and determine it was a flash-bang, and not a grenade. Then her first act – like Gibbs' – was to try to secure the suspects. Unfortunately, the two second lapse cost her. As soon as he released the canister, the second man turned and ran toward her like a charging bull. She ordered him to stop, but it was clear he had no intention of complying. Ziva lowered her aim from where she'd had it on the man's body mass and took a single shot at his legs. Several things then happened virtually simultaneously. He slammed into her, knocking her hard to the ground. She lost her grip on her gun and it slid away across the concrete. The flash-bang detonated.

Ziva had no chance to protect herself. The concussion blast, the sound, the explosion of light, all combined to temporarily daze her. She lay on the floor as the blast echoes faded, blinking her eyes and trying to decide which way was up. Ziva rolled onto her front and swept her arms and legs around her to orient herself. Concrete, no landmarks within reach, no gun nearby. She stilled, trying to sense something around the white blindness and the intense ringing in her ears. There was nothing. It was like the rest of the world had ceased to exist. She rolled onto her side and curled slightly, taking deep, measured breaths, all her instincts screaming at her to be ready for whatever came. Silently she counted to herself. At twenty-four seconds, out of nowhere, a hand on her neck.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

Faster than Gibbs could react, Ziva's left hand shot up and she grabbed his right sleeve near his forearm. She flipped onto her back, using him for leverage, and surged up, plowing her other fist into his gut. Gibbs' breath left him in a whoof. He grabbed the sleeve of her free arm before she could hit him again, and Ziva kicked out hard, connecting with the side of his right knee. Gibbs grunted and went down, his knee hyper-extending with a rifle shot of pain. She jerked her arm out of his grip as he rolled onto his back, his right leg twisting underneath him, his Sig digging sharply into his spine. He leaned sideways to get off it and saw Ziva draw her knife out of her boot with her now free right hand. Gibbs' throat filled with the copper tang of a new flood of adrenalin and he actually felt his heart kick up another impossible notch.

Ziva was still holding his right forearm in a death grip. Gibbs swung his left up and hit her hard in the head, pulling the punch at the last second to be sure he didn't seriously hurt her. Her head snapped sideways and she dropped on top of him, increasing the pressure on his folded knee and pressing him back against the gun again. He grabbed her wrist and tried to force the knife away but the close quarters wouldn't let him lock his elbow and she bore down on him hard. Pain from his back and knee demanded his attention, but all his focus was on the bright blade of the knife, looming large in his vision. He pushed out and managed to get the knife a few inches further away. She suddenly twisted her arm, escaped his grip, and the knife found his throat. He froze, his forearm folded between them, pressing against her chest.

Gibbs' brain was reeling. He fought against instinct and muscle memory that demanded he put down the threat. He shouted her name, trying to break through. With her face only inches from his own, he could see her eyes were wide, pupils pinpoint. She was blind as well as deaf. The effect of the flash-bang was relatively short – another minute or two tops – but Gibbs knew it was plenty of time for her to kill him.

The wide beam of a flashlight bounced across them. Gibbs spared a glance up as his junior agent ran into his line of sight behind Ziva. If the situation hadn't been so potentially deadly, Gibbs would have laughed at the shocked expression on McGee's face. He was saying something, but all Gibbs could hear was the ringing in his ears, and his own pounding heart.

"She can't hear you. Me neither," Gibbs said, and McGee's jaw snapped shut. "Don't touch her. Just relax." Her knuckles were pressed against his jaw, the knife against his throat, unmoving. He felt a trickle of something run down his neck toward the back of his jacket. Blood.

"Just relax," Gibbs repeated, not entirely certain if he was talking to McGee or himself. The light was trembling. The kid was probably as nervous as Gibbs was.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

When the man's hand touched her throat, Ziva reacted to the threat with deadly force. She grabbed at the hand, holding it tight so the man wouldn't be able to escape to sneak up on her again, or attack from a distance. She felt him pull back, understood that he was facing her, and went for it. A solid right to the gut and a whoosh of coffee-scented breath on her face. The man grabbed her free arm and she kicked out. She felt him sag to the ground next to her. She jerked her arm free, twisted toward him, and reached into her boot to pull her knife. A punch to the side of her head. Hard, but she had been hit far harder.

Ziva threw herself on top of the body she could feel writhing next to her. He grabbed her wrist. She fought it, trying to bring the knife to bear. With a violent twist she got her wrist free, felt his free arm come between them, then found his neck with the blade. He froze. She rested her knuckles against his jaw, applying just enough pressure with the knife so she knew he'd feel it and took a few deep breaths, planning her next move. She realized she could sense a light source in front of her. Her vision was starting to clear. She felt him move a little and she pressed the knife more firmly into his skin. If he moved again, she would cut his throat without hesitation. Then suddenly something sparked in her brain. Something familiar. A smell. The man she was lying on had coffee breath and smelled of … sawdust?

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

Ziva suddenly dropped her face closer to him and Gibbs felt her breath on his ear. She inhaled deeply against the side of his neck, and the knife moved away an inch. She cocked her head slightly and a look of confusion passed over her face. Gibbs wasn't sure what she was doing, but he took advantage of it and made his move. He jerked free the arm she still held, pushing out with his other forearm. As he grabbed her jacket and used his momentum to roll them over, he felt the knife nick him, deep. He hissed at the pain.

Gibbs landed on top of her and shoved himself upright, a small scream escaping his lips at the weight he put on his knee. He shifted sideways to a less excruciating position, at the same time grabbing both of her forearms and driving them to the ground. His badge, dangling on its neck chain, hit her in the face and she jerked her head away. He straddled her waist, his weight on her thighs, as she struggled to get her arms lose. Gibbs drove the back of her right hand hard into the ground, bearing down to keep her from bucking him off. He smashed her knuckles against the concrete again, and this time her hand spasmed open, the knife flying away. He let go of her left hand, ripped his badge off over his head, and pressed the metal into her open right palm. For a moment she struggled, punching at him with her free hand. Then her right hand closed over the leather-backed brass and she stilled. Ziva's fingers worked over it for a few seconds. He saw the moment realization dawned: She relaxed all at once. Gibbs rolled off her, lying on his back next to her in the beam of McGee's flashlight and taking deep, gasping breaths. He rotated his leg so his knee was upright and reached underneath himself to draw his Sig out of his waistband, letting it rest against his chest.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

The smell had made Ziva hesitate while her brain tried to put the pieces together, to understand why her instinct to kill was being overrun. She had lain there for only a few seconds before the man beneath her lunged up and the fight was on again. She was flipped over onto her back, and something hit her in the face. Not hard, just startling. Ziva tried to bring the knife back around, but he grabbed her wrists and forced them away. Her knuckles hit the ground and she cried out, managing just barely to hang onto the knife. She twisted and bucked, trying to throw him off, trying to get her hands free. He slammed her knife hand into the concrete again and this time she couldn't keep her fingers closed. The knife flew away. He let go of her left wrist. She didn't understand why he was letting her go, but she took advantage of it and punched him, twice. Then something was pressed into her open right hand. Something metal, round. No, not round, oval. An oval metal disc backed with a slightly larger, slightly warm piece of leather. She closed her fingers over it and the pieces clicked. Coffee breath, sawdust smell, badge. Gibbs.

Ziva relaxed all at once, and Gibbs rolled off her. She lay there for a moment, not moving, clutching the badge. One thought overwhelmed her: Please God, let him be okay.

* * *

to be continued...

Please do comment. Like it or not, I'd love to hear you've made it this far.


	27. Part 25

**One Less - Part 25**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

_Note: This was a bad break, and an awkward place to re-enter the story, so to refresh: _

_Gibbs has just practically had the bejeezees kicked out of him by Ziva when she was blind and deaf from the effects of a [really powerful] flash-bang. Gibbs is bleeding from his neck where Ziva nearly cut his throat, and his right knee is whacked from her kicking it, then him landing on it. She's still out of it. Gibbs can see, but his ears are ringing real bad, blocking out most sound. They're lying side-by-side on the floor of Nicky's warehouse, McGee standing over them with his flashlight, trying to understand what the heck happened. One bad guy in custody..._

* * *

McGee's light suddenly spun away from them and he drew his gun. Gibbs twisted around and sighted his own gun in the direction of McGee's light. The guy handcuffed to the pole was awake and – judging by the expression on his face – not happy.

"He's clean," Gibbs said. They both lowered their weapons. "There were two. Is the car still outside?" He realized he could hear his own voice again, albeit inside his head. Shouldn't be long now. Beside Gibbs, Ziva sat up, still tightly clutching his badge.

McGee hurried over to look outside. Gibbs holstered his gun and tried to push himself off the ground. As soon as he moved his right knee, he had to stifle a cry of pain. Or at least he thought he stifled it. McGee looked back over his shoulder, concern on his face. Gibbs waved him on and rolled into a sitting position, his left leg stretched out in front of him, his right still bent almost 90 degrees and apparently stuck that way. He told himself to straighten it, and it moved just enough to know that was a bad idea. He felt his pulse pounding in the artery behind his knee. This was not good. McGee looked out through the man door and came back shaking his head. The other suspect and the car they'd arrived in were gone.

"Go get the sedan. And call Metro to transport this guy."

McGee said something to him. Gibbs heard the tone of his voice, but the words were still lost in the ringing. He Gibbs shook his head. "Not yet, McGee."

McGee nodded, then gestured toward him. Gibbs frowned, not understanding. McGee crouched down in front of him and reached out to touch Gibbs' neck. Gibbs jerked back at the pain. McGee withdrew, then shone his light on his hand. A thick smear of blood. Gibbs was bleeding. Ziva's knife.

"Got it," Gibbs said. He pressed his jacket forearm against the wound he knew was there and applied pressure. McGee nodded again and stood. He picked up Ziva's knife, which he wiped on his jeans before sliding it into his belt. Then he carefully picked up her gun and unloaded it, sticking the weapon and the clip into his coat pocket. He headed outside. Gibbs turned to look at Ziva, who was sitting very still beside him. She had one hand braced on the floor, the one with his badge in it pressed against her chest. Her legs were out in front of her and she was leaning slightly forward. She was staring straight ahead, her head cocked sideways.

"Ziver?" Gibbs called loudly. No response. He sighed, then warily reached over and lightly touched the back of her free hand. She turned her face toward him and took his hand, squeezing it. He returned the squeeze and held on.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

A D.C. Metro Police cruiser showed up 15 minutes later. By then, the ringing in Gibbs' ears had subsided to a low buzz that he knew from experience could last for hours. At least he could hear speech again. The bleeding at his neck had slowed to an ooze, but hadn't yet stopped. Ziva had stuck him deep. He was probably lucky the knife had missed his carotid artery.

Ziva had similarly recovered, enough to explain what had happened from her perspective and to start apologizing for attacking him. He told her – repeatedly – that he would have done the same thing, that it was fine, that he was fine. But he didn't try to get up, and his team noticed.

Right behind Metro came the medics. They checked the sailor – his ID card showed him to be a Petty Officer First named Fazio – and found a large goose-egg on the back of his head. They decided he needed to go to the emergency room. And since he was under arrest, someone would have to stay with him. Realizing the choice was sending an NCIS agent, or giving Metro enough of the facts of the case to convince them they weren't going to be sued for false arrest, Gibbs told Ziva to stay with Fazio, and start working the paper. She objected. She wanted to stay until she was sure Gibbs was alright. A withering look from him had her relenting. McGee gave her back her weapons and she joined the Metro cop for the ride to Bethesda.

A second ambulance showed up before the first departed. The Metro cops, concerned about Gibbs' injuries, had called for it. Gibbs let the medics clean the wound at his neck and apply a couple of steri strips to close the deepest part of it. They tried to examine his knee, but he waved them off. It would be fine.

Once they were finally alone again, Gibbs had McGee help him stand. He managed to get upright and partly straighten his knee, but not enough to put weight on his leg, even if that were a good idea.

"Uh, you think we should go to the hospital, boss?" McGee said as he looped Gibbs' arm over his neck and helped him hop toward the door.

"No," Gibbs said shortly. As they approached the door, Gibbs pulled back. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at a spot on the floor in front of them. McGee shone his light where Gibbs indicated.

"Looks like oil. Or paint?" McGee guessed.

"Could it be blood?" Gibbs asked.

"Maybe. Did you shoot?" McGee asked.

"No. But maybe Ziva got a shot off."

McGee swung his light ahead, finding more of the spots and visually tracking them to the exit door. He moved the light in widening circles around them until it caught a reflection off something metal.

"There's the brass," McGee said. "I should collect it. Get a sample."

"You should. And find the grenade canister."

McGee helped Gibbs out to the sedan and onto the passenger seat before getting his gear from the trunk. When the young agent disappeared back into the warehouse, Gibbs slid the seat all the way back to create maximum room and used his hands to lift his leg into the car. He panted, trying to tamp down the pain. When he was in, he leaned his head back and tried to catch his breath.

It took longer than he liked to get his breathing under control. When he thought he could finally speak complete sentences, Gibbs called Ziva. She confirmed she'd fired only once, at the sailor's legs. She was pleased to hear she might have hit him. Gibbs told her to start making calls, to get notice to all local civilian and military hospitals and late-night clinics to be on the lookout for a gunshot victim. She said she would, then asked after Gibbs' health again. He hung up without answering.

Gibbs waited while McGee took samples of the blood and collected the flash-bang canister and the single cartridge from Ziva's gun. His back where he'd landed on his Sig was throbbing, and it felt like he was being stabbed again every time he moved his neck, or even talked or swallowed. But those Gibbs could deal with. He'd been hurt before, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last time. Nothing that wouldn't heal on its own.

The knee, however, he wasn't so sure he could ignore this time. It might actually need something more than ice and a wrap. Maybe he'd go see Ducky at home tomorrow.

McGee returned to the car and reported he'd been unable to locate the slug from Ziva's gun. NCIS – like most urban law enforcement agencies – used hollow-point bullets that mushroomed on impact with flesh. They were good for close-quarters shooting because they were far less likely to pass through the person they hit and endanger bystanders and other cops. They also tended to do a little more damage than a through and through as they tumbled around inside the body. Which meant the sailor was going to need medical attention, sooner rather than later.

As McGee drove them back to the Navy Yard, Gibbs called the infirmary aboard the Roosevelt. He asked to be connected to the Chief Physician. It was almost 10 p.m., and the duty nurse gave him a hassle about waking up the boss when there was no medical emergency. Gibbs ignored him. When he had the man on the line, Gibbs explained who he was and why he was calling.

"You're likely to see him in the next day or two. Might be for the GSW, might be an infection if he tries to remove the slug without proper medical supervision."

"Where was he hit?" the doctor asked.

"Probably the lower extremities."

"Any idea how serious the wound is?"

"No. There was minimal bleeding at the scene," Gibbs said.

"That might just mean his clothes caught the worst of it," the doctor said. "Are you sure he was one of our sailors?"

"Yes," Gibbs said. The chances that the two men who'd shown up tonight were not from the Big Stick were too slim to talk about.

"Alright, I'll keep an eye out. I assume you'd like to be notified if a sailor with such a wound comes in?"

"We would. We may have a name soon. If he comes aboard, we'll have him brought to you."

"Fair enough." Gibbs gave the doctor his number and signed off.

McGee's phone rang as they were entering the lobby elevator, McGee acting as Gibbs' awkward crutch. McGee paused and worked the cell out of his pocket without letting go of Gibbs.

"Hello? Yeah, we just got here... oh, okay... we'll be right there." He clicked off. "Ducky's here. He wants to see you downstairs," McGee explained.

Gibbs sighed and shook his head slightly. He'd been hoping to avoid this confrontation until morning, at least.

"Fine," Gibbs said. They rode down to autopsy.

"What're you doing here so late, Duck?" Gibbs asked as McGee helped him hitch himself up onto one of the tables.

"A little bird called me to say you'd been injured. I knew it was unlikely you would go to the hospital like any reasonable man would, so I came to see if my services might be required."

"Would that be a little Israeli bird?" Gibbs growled.

"She was quite concerned she might have hurt you," Ducky said.

"I'm going to kill her," Gibbs growled.

"Never mind the threats, Jethro. Besides, it looks to me like she was the one who nearly killed you. Let me see your neck."

"It's fine," Gibbs said. Ducky sighed.

"I hear you did your job very well tonight. Now let me do mine."

Gibbs acquiesced with ill grace, and Ducky turned on the overhead exam light. He looked closely at the neck wound. There were actually two cuts: The longer one was about two and a half inches long but shallow, hardly more than a deep scratch. The second was shorter, about an inch, but Ducky could see from the edges of the wound that it was much deeper. The medics had placed three steri strips close together to close it. Ducky realized Gibbs had been incredibly lucky to have come out of this alive: the deeper wound was less than a finger width from the bulge of his artery. Ducky said a silent prayer of thanks for providence, or luck, or whatever it was that kept his family safe. Most of the time.

"Gonna need stitches?" Gibbs asked, breaking Ducky out of his ruminations.

"The knife was very sharp and the edges of the cut are well-defined. The steri strips will probably take care of it. Might need a little surgical glue. You're likely to have a bit of a scar."

"Got plenty of those already," Gibbs said.

"As I am well aware," Ducky said. "What about your knee?"

"It's fine," Gibbs said again. And again, Ducky ignored him.

"Timothy, be a good man. Go to the garage and get my bag, will you?"

"Of course, Ducky," McGee said. He accepted Ducky's keys and hopped to. When he was gone, the doctor turned back to Gibbs.

"Let me see it," Ducky said, his tone brokering no objection this time. With a sigh, Gibbs put his hands under his knee and lifted his leg up, twisting around to rest his heel on the table. His knee was stuck at a 45-degree angle. He managed to keep from groaning, but his face must have betrayed him because the medical examiner 'tsked' at him as he unlaced Gibbs' boot and worked it off. The sock came next, then Ducky tried to push up his pant leg. Gibbs had changed into a pair of comfortable jeans for the sting, and the cuff would go no higher than his calf.

"You want to take them off, or shall I cut them?"

The jeans were old, and cutting them would certainly be easier than trying to get them off without standing up again. On the other hand, he didn't have any pants to change into, and Gibbs did not want to spend the rest of the night's work in Ducky's too-small scrubs or one of Abby's jumpsuits.

In answer, Gibbs undid his belt and laid back on the table. Using his left foot for leverage and trying not to move his right leg too much, he managed to shimmy the pants down over his hips. Ducky pulled at the cuffs and the jeans slid away. With Ducky's help, he sat up again. He felt the cold of the steel autopsy table press against his skin through his boxers and shivered a little.

"My usual guests don't seem to mind," Ducky said with a small smile, then focused on Gibbs' knee.

"Oh my," he said, and Gibbs had to agree. His knee was twice the size it ought to be. It was hard to tell under the swelling, but the kneecap looked slightly off kilter, a deepening purple bruise running alongside it.

"Wiggle your toes," Ducky instructed. Gibbs did. He felt a twinge in his kneecap. The medical examiner felt at the top of his foot for a pulse, squeezed his big toe and released it, then took hold of his foot and slowly rotated the ankle joint.

"Does that hurt?" Ducky asked as Gibbs hissed.

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "Not the ankle. I can feel it in the knee."

"Can you straighten it?"

"Probably. I'd rather not," Gibbs said. Ducky ran delicate hands up both sides of Gibbs' calf, gently squeezing as he went. He got to the knee and palpated it, pressing gently around the surface of the kneecap. He noted the places where Gibbs reacted to the pain despite himself, then moved higher and squeezed his thigh. Nothing there. Satisfied, Ducky released him and shook his head.

"Well, you've certainly done it this time, Jethro," Ducky said. "I don't think ice and a wrap is going to take care of it."

The fact that Ducky's words echoed Gibbs' earlier thought was a little disconcerting. But he knew when the doctor was serious and he sighed.

"What's it look like?" Gibbs asked.

"The kneecap's not broken. Maybe dislocated. I wouldn't be surprised if there's some ligament damage. You need an x-ray at least. An MRI would be better."

"I've got a suspect on his way here for interrogation. It's gonna have to wait. What can you do in the meantime?"

Ducky sighed. "I can take an x-ray and give you my best medical opinion on how long you can wait before going to the hospital. If I decide it can wait, I'll do what I can to make you comfortable. If it can't, I'll call you an ambulance."

"Fine," Gibbs said. Ducky brought over the portable x-ray and Gibbs laid out on his side. Ducky put on a lead apron, and draped another over Gibbs.

Gibbs kept the knee bent and Ducky worked around it. It took 20 minutes for the medical examiner to shoot pictures of each side of Gibbs' knee, develop the film, and pop them all onto the light board. McGee had returned, and as Gibbs gingerly slid to the end of the table to look, McGee's eyes widened in shock.

"That looks bad," McGee commented. Gibbs turned and gave him a look.

"Maybe not that bad?" McGee backtracked with a question in his voice.

"It's certainly not good," Ducky said. "There's no damage to the patella itself, but as I suspected, there is a dislocation. See this here, and here." He pointed to two places on the x-rays.

Gibbs could clearly see the misalignment between the kneecap and the tibia bone in his lower leg. He could also see what he was pretty sure were spaces among the tendons where none should be. Ducky spent another minute looking at the films, tapping on them with a pen and comparing one to another.

"If I can reduce it, the rest can hold a couple of hours," he pronounced.

"Why do I think I'm not going to enjoy that," Gibbs said.

"It's up to you. If they do it at the hospital, they'll sedate you, and you'll wake up fixed. Of course, you likely won't wake up until tomorrow morning."

"I'm running out of time, Ducky. I've got to talk to this guy tonight. Do what you can."

"Very well. McGee, I need you to stand behind him, hold his chest, like this." Ducky demonstrated. McGee took his place, wrapping his forearms around Gibbs' chest, his elbows under Gibbs' arms, wrists locked together. "When I'm ready to do it, you can push back against McGee. That'll help," Ducky said. He went back around the table in front of Gibbs. "Now let me just check something…"

Ducky felt around Gibbs' kneecap. He 'hmmed' a couple times, put one hand on Gibbs' thigh just above the knee as if feeling for injury, and slid the other down his leg. Ducky felt at the calf, tsked at Gibbs again, then suddenly grabbed the back of Gibbs' ankle and jerked up, pushing down hard on the thigh at the same time.

"Son of a bitch!" Gibbs shouted as his leg fully extended. He grabbed at the table with both hands, pressing hard back against McGee, suddenly panting as if he'd chased a suspect a mile.

"How's that?" Ducky asked pleasantly, still holding the leg outstretched. Gibbs tried to catch his breath.

"Damn, Duck, what're you trying to do, kill me?" Gibbs exclaimed.

The doors to autopsy swooshed open and Ziva came through, reading something from a file. "Our suspect was released from the hospital. I put him in… Oh!" she said as she looked up, startled at the scene laid out in front of her: Gibbs in his underwear, gasping for breath, Ducky holding one of his legs, McGee with his arms still wrapped around Gibbs from behind. Her mouth fell open, and she spun away from them. But not before they all saw her olive skin flush scarlet.

"I will be upstairs," she said, and fled the room. Ducky laughed out loud, and even Gibbs couldn't help but smile a little through the echoing pain.

"You can let him go now, McGee. How does it feel?" Ducky repeated his question as he slowly let Gibbs' knee return to 90 degrees. Gibbs swung his foot a little, then cautiously straightened his leg.

"Better," he said. "Much better."

"Glad I could be of assistance," Ducky said. "Stay there." He brought his medical bag over and took out several wide tensor bandages. He wrapped the knee tightly, then prepared a shot.

"This'll keep it from distracting you. But as soon as you're done with the suspect, I expect McGee to take you directly to Bethesda." Ducky saw the objection forming on Gibbs' face and held up a hand to cut him off at the pass.

"Timothy, I'm holding you responsible if he doesn't get there," Ducky told McGee while still looking at Gibbs. Seeing no further comment from Gibbs, he turned to McGee and continued.

"And believe me, you do not want to have to explain to me why you failed in this assignment."

"Yes, Ducky," McGee said seriously.

"Good. Now, you wouldn't want poor McGee to be on my bad side, would you Jethro?" Ducky asked, returning to Gibbs.

"Just give me the shot," Gibbs grumbled.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

Half an hour later, Gibbs was dressed and walking again, albeit with a pronounced limp and the assistance of a cane Ducky had produced from somewhere. There was a vague pain every time he took a step, but it was certainly better.

The metro cops had searched Fazio before putting him in the ambulance, producing a cell phone, a set of keys, his wallet and the Navy ID card he'd shown Gibbs. Ziva had taken custody of all of it and spent the time since her return running him down. When Gibbs appeared in the darkened squadroom, her eyes widened at the sight of the cane and the square of white gauze Ducky had taped over the steri-strips, but she said nothing.

"What'd you find?" Gibbs asked. He leaned back against the outer edge of his desk, crossing his ankles to take his weight on his left leg, and looked at Ziva expectantly. She picked up a page of notes and started to read from it.

"Corpsman First Class Michael Fazio, assigned to the Roosevelt since 2005. All fitness reports show him to be an excellent medic. No reprimands, no letters of caution, nothing in his SRB to indicate he has ever had any trouble with anyone. Since the Roosevelt docked in Norfolk, he has been splitting his time between assignments on board and at Portsmouth Hospital. He has not reported aboard for tomorrow's arrival deadline."

"Where's he been living?" Gibbs asked.

"He pays the rent every other month on a two bedroom house in the Coronado area of Norfolk."

"Who pays it the rest of the time?"

"I do not know. The check is made out to a property management company. Tax rolls show the property belongs to a holding company that owns numerous other buildings throughout the area. The CEO of the holding company lists no phone number in corporate documents, however, there is only one Thomas Gangopadhyaya in the tri-state area. I left a message on his voicemail."

"Only one?" Gibbs said facetiously.

"It is a common name on the Indian sub-continent," Ziva smiled.

"What else?"

"I noted the license number of the car they arrived in and ran the plate. It was registered to Fazio. I put a BOLO out on it. I also contacted Norfolk Police. They went to the house and confirmed that no one appears to be home. They are sitting on it, pending a search warrant which I am in the process of drafting. Since he only pays half the rent, it is likely he has a roommate. Perhaps the second suspect from tonight."

"Maybe," Gibbs said. "If he's going back home, even if he left D.C. immediately, he couldn't make it back to Norfolk for another…" Gibbs checked his watch. "Another hour."

"Yes. I informed the officers on scene that it was possible one of our suspects was driving there from here. Since he might be a suspect in a homicide, they have agreed to stake out the house, and pick up anyone who shows up."

Gibbs knew they didn't have enough to call Fazio's roommate a suspect yet, assuming he even had a roommate, but he applauded her initiative. Ziva continued.

"Fazio's cell phone records show nothing obviously significant. His bank statements show he pays monthly utilities only every other month as well. All other expenses are within acceptable limits, except his charitable contributions. He sends one hundred dollars per month to the Wounded Warrior Project and exactly ten percent of his monthly income to Blessed Sacrament Church in Norfolk. Ten percent to the penny."

"So he's a devout Catholic," Gibbs said.

"It would appear so," Ziva agreed. "Can you use that?"

"Probably," Gibbs agreed. "How'd you get the financials so quickly?" He would have expected to have to wait until morning for bank statements. Unless they seized them from the suspect, or McGee hacked into something.

"McGee has taught me a few things," Ziva acknowledged with a smile. "Besides, I am feeling particularly motivated tonight."

Gibbs could imagine why.

Ziva continued. "The emergency room physician at Bethesda said Petty Officer Fazio suffered no fractures or cerebral bleeding from his head injury. When he was informed that Fazio lost consciousness, he wanted to admit him for observation. However, I told the doctor that I would be transferring him to the detention center infirmary at NSF Anacostia. The doctor agreed to release him to my custody, providing we watched for signs of concussion during the transfer. I brought him here first, but we will need to take him to Anacostia when you are finished with him."

"Good job," Gibbs said.

Ziva nodded. She seemed about to say something else, but turned away. Gibbs knew he would eventually have to address her feelings of guilt over injuring him, but not tonight. Tonight, he was hurting, and tired, and all he wanted to do was get the dirtbag in interrogation to spill his guts and then go home. By way of the ER, if he couldn't talk McGee out of it.

"I'm going to have a chat with Petty Officer Fazio. Make a six-pack with his picture and take it to Nicky's motel, see if he can pick him out."

"Got it," Ziva said. She turned back to her computer and started working. She would pull up ID photos of five other similarly-featured sailors and put them together on a single page. If Nicky could pick Fazio as one of the men he'd seen that night, it would bring them a lot closer to a conviction.

Gibbs shuffled through the squadroom and down the hall toward interrogation. He pushed open the door to observation. McGee was standing there in the dark, watching Fazio through the glass. The sailor was sitting at the table with his head pillowed on his arms. The jacket he'd been wearing was over the back of his chair, his ball cap not in sight. His head was shaved close, tighter than a standard crew cut. Gibbs figured he'd had it done in preparation for shove-off. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt and a pair of worn black cargo pants.

"Where's his hat?" Gibbs asked McGee, thinking of the surplus of DNA that would be present on it.

"Already in the lab," McGee said. "Along with the blood and the canister. Ziva took his prints, too."

"Good. You set up in here?" Gibbs asked. This late at night, bringing a tech down to work the recording equipment meant taking someone out of MTAC's already skeleton staff. McGee could do double duty: Run the equipment and watch Gibbs' back too.

"All set," McGee said.

Gibbs nodded again and moved down the hall.

* * *

to be continued...

Thanks to those of you still reviewing. It makes me happier that you can imagine to hear from readers who are enjoying the fruits of my late-night labors. Do drop me a line or two if you can...


	28. Part 26

**One Less - Part 26**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs balanced the cane against the wall outside the door to interrogation and stepped inside, trying to walk as normally as possible. The shot Ducky had given him had numbed most of the pain. But not all of it.

Despite the opening and closing of the door, Fazio didn't move. Gibbs realized with a touch of surprise that the sailor was asleep. At least Gibbs hoped he was asleep, and hadn't passed out. The last thing he needed right now was the paperwork that would be involved in explaining why Fazio was here and not in the infirmary if he DFO'd.

As he passed behind Fazio, Gibbs flicked his fingers against the top of Fazio's head. He wanted to smack him awake, but considering the damage Gibbs had already done to this sailor's head, he figured it wasn't a good idea. The tap was enough. Fazio jerked upright, a startled look on his face.

"What the…" he started to say indignantly.

"Wake up, Sailor," Gibbs said and settled hard into his chair. Fazio looked at him, rubbed his fists into his eyes, and yawned. Whatever fight there was going to be had already died.

"Sorry about that. I haven't been sleeping well lately," Fazio said.

Committing murder will do that to you, Gibbs thought, but held it.

"Have you been read you your rights?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah," Fazio said. "That cop from D.C. did it."

Which meant the rights he'd been read were the of the civilian variety. "Did you ask for a lawyer?"

"No," Fazio said.

"You've been placed under arrest for a crime, and I'm required to advise you of your rights as a member of the United States Navy under Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice."

"That's alright, I know my rights," Fazio said.

"Doesn't matter. I still have to advise you."

"Fine," Fazio said.

"I am Special Agent L. Jethro Gibbs, Naval Criminal Investigative Service, and I am investigating the alleged offense of impersonating an NCIS agent, of which you are suspected," Gibbs began, going through the formal reading of Fazio's right to keep his mouth shut and get a lawyer. When he finished, Fazio quickly agreed to waive his rights, and Gibbs got to the point.

"So, what were you doing in that warehouse tonight?" Gibbs asked.

"Trying to help solve a murder," Fazio said. Gibbs waited, and he continued.

"Petty Officer Ferrara was killed there, almost a week ago. We ship out on Saturday. I didn't want to leave without knowing I'd done everything I could to help catch whoever killed him."

It was reasonable, but it was definitely rehearsed. Gibbs wondered if he'd come up with it in the last hour and a half, or if they'd agreed on it before arriving at the warehouse, just in case.

"And you decided the best way to do that was to impersonate an NCIS Agent?" Gibbs said. Fazio shook his head.

"I wasn't impersonating anything. I was just trying to find a witness, that's all. It's not like I was going to arrest anyone. I thought one of the local homeless might have seen something. NCIS doesn't offer rewards this early in a case, and these guys don't come forward without one."

"So you were going to pay a reward?"

"Sure," Fazio said.

"And what were you planning on doing with the information, if you got anything?"

"If I'd found a good witness, I'd have called you guys." Gibbs stared at him for a moment. The kid looked sincere, eager to please. But there was something that just didn't ring true.

"Anyone else call before we did?" Gibbs asked.

"No. I guess no one saw anything after all," Fazio said. "It was worth a try, though."

"It was worth a try," Gibbs repeated, skepticism plain in his voice.

"Sure," Fazio said. "Why not? It certainly didn't hurt anything."

"Except you."

"Not really," Fazio said. "It's just a concussion. I've had them before." He raised a hand and rubbed at the back of his head where he'd hit the concrete.

"You committed a crime punishable by jail time, a fine, and a dishonorable discharge," Gibbs pointed out.

"Ah, come on," Fazio said dismissively. "I told what I thought was an old homeless guy that I worked for NCIS. I wasn't impersonating anyone. I even showed you my own ID."

Gibbs let the 'old' comment go by.

"And that's what you're going to tell the panel at your court-martial?" Gibbs asked.

"Sure," Fazio shrugged. "Not that it'll go that far. One of ours was killed, and I was doing what I could to help. There's not a ranking officer out there who'll care. It's not like I was impersonating one of them. I might face Captain's mast, if you throw a big enough fit. But that's all."

Gibbs was amazed at how cavalier this kid was being about the whole thing. Like it didn't matter. Of course, his job as a medical first responder required he be calm and cool under pressure. Suddenly Gibbs realized something.

"You keep saying 'I'. What about your buddy?" Gibbs asked.

"What about him?" Fazio asked.

"Who is he?"

"A friend of mine. My roommate. He was just helping out." That confirms that, Gibbs thought.

"What's his name?"

"Danny Lewis," Fazio said. Gibbs knew that in addition to recording the whole thing, McGee would be taking notes, so he didn't have to.

"Middle name?"

"I don't know."

"His birth date?"

Again, Fazio shrugged. "I don't know. It's in October, and he turned 30 last year. That's all I know."

"Is he Navy?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Fazio said. Gibbs narrowed his eyes.

"Really?"

"Really," Fazio insisted. Gibbs was almost certain he was lying, but he let it go. It wouldn't be hard to prove or disprove.

"You know he got shot tonight?" Gibbs asked. At that, Fazio's eyes widened and Gibbs finally saw a crack in his confidence.

"Is he alright?" the sailor asked.

"I don't know. He took off in your car. Norfolk police are at your house now looking for him."

"Why'd you shoot him?" Fazio asked.

"He threw a hand grenade at us. What'd you expect us to do?"

"It wasn't a hand grenade," Fazio said with a frown. "It was a flash-bang. It wouldn't have hurt anyone."

"And we were supposed to know that?" Gibbs asked. Fazio gave him a 'give me a break' look.

"You're law enforcement. You can recognize the difference," Fazio said. He cocked his head slightly. "You did recognize the difference. Instead of taking cover, you went after me."

"Why'd you have it?" Gibbs asked.

"We brought it along for self-defense," Fazio said. "Southeast D.C. isn't exactly Georgetown. If it went bad, we wanted to be able to get the hell out of there without having to hurt anyone. Where'd he get hit?"

Gibbs ignored the question. "So you decide that along with the misdemeanor of impersonating a federal agent you'd go for the felony of possessing – and using – a restricted explosive device."

"It was for self-defense," Fazio repeated. "No one got hurt."

"Really?" Gibbs said, and let that hang for a minute before continuing. "Where'd you get it?"

Another shrug. "It wasn't mine. Danny had it. I don't know where he got it from. Look, is there some way we can work this out? We were only trying to help."

Gibbs paused, gathering his thoughts. He let a minute go by, then two, before speaking again.

"Murder is a mortal sin," he said finally.

After a beat while he tried to follow the change of topic, Fazio said, "What?"

"You heard me," Gibbs said.

"Yes, it is," Fazio said, clearly confused.

"An offense against God," Gibbs said.

"Yeah."

"Destroys the grace of God in the heart of the sinner," Gibbs added, reaching way back into his memory.

"Uh huh," Fazio said.

"You ever kill anyone?" Gibbs asked. Fazio frowned. His mouth opened, then closed. When he spoke, his voice was softer.

"Not directly," he said. "But I work for the Navy. We kill people all the time."

"So you've been a party to murder," Gibbs said.

"No. Not every killing is murder."

"Really?"

"Of course. Only an intentional, unlawful killing rises to the level of a mortal sin."

"So if you accidentally kill someone, it's not murder," Gibbs said.

"Of course not."

"Lose control of your car on the ice, kill a pedestrian, not a sin?" Gibbs asked.

"No."

"Hit a line drive back at the pitcher, he dies from a brain bleed, not a sin?"

"Nope," Fazio said. He was settling back into it.

"Get drunk, take offense at the guy on the stool next to you, knock him off the stool and he breaks his neck in the fall, not a sin?"

"That's a different sin," Fazio said. "But it's not murder."

"Decide some guy needs to learn a lesson, beat him a little too hard, he dies. Not murder?" Gibbs asked.

Fazio blinked, and Gibbs saw the light go on. Not full understanding, but Fazio had just gotten a clue. The Petty Officer stared at Gibbs for a moment, then: "Depends on the lesson he needed to learn."

"Really?" Gibbs said, raising his brow.

"If he needs to learn to stop corrupting innocents, then the beating falls into the category of defense of others. The killing is an unintended side effect, and therefore, not intentional homicide. Not murder." Gibbs was amazed at the logic. Fazio had obviously put some thought into this. He sat silently for a few moments before he threw another curve ball.

"You go to confession much?" Gibbs asked.

Fazio frowned. Again, thrown by the topic change.

"Yes," he said with some hesitation. "Catholics believe we must regularly confess our sins so we don't risk dying in an unrepentant state."

"So you confess your sin and all is forgiven?"

"It's not that simple. You have to be penitent. You can't just fake it. You seek absolution for sin, you accept and perform penance, you get forgiveness."

"So you can go do it again?"

"Of course not," Fazio said with a touch of annoyance and a shake of his head. "Confession is about sincerely seeking forgiveness for past sin, desiring to change future behavior, to live more in the image of Christ. But what does this have to do with anything?"

"What would you say about someone who intentionally sets out to seriously harm another person, seeks and receives absolution, then goes out and does it again?" Gibbs asked.

Fazio considered the question, considered him. Gibbs could see the wheels turning. Did Gibbs know? How much did Gibbs know? Oh yeah, this guy was involved up to his ass.

After a long pause, Fazio answered the question. "I would wonder about the condition of his soul. There is no forgiveness if the intent exists to repeat the sin."

"No matter how good his reason? No matter how righteous he thought his mission was?"

The word made Fazio's eyes widen, but only for a second. "Of course," he said.

"Huh." Gibbs made a sound low in his throat, neither agreement nor dispute. He thought he had Fazio in the right frame of mind for the next series of questions.

"Where were you last Saturday night?" Gibbs asked. For a moment, there was no reaction. Then Fazio's expression changed. Gibbs saw a split second flash of fear before Fazio glanced at his reflection in the mirror and managed to suppress it. He swallowed once, rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, and cleared his throat. Gotcha, Gibbs thought.

"Why?" Fazio said finally.

"Just asking," Gibbs said.

"I worked on the Roosevelt until 1900, hung around onboard for another couple hours. Then I went home. Stayed in all night."

"What'd you do on board after your shift?"

"Nothing much. Talked to some friends who live aboard that I hadn't seen in awhile, shot the bull. Just, hung around."

"What time did you get home?"

"Around 2130, maybe 2200."

"Anyone who can back that up?"

"Danny was home when I got there," Fazio said. "He was in all night, too."

"Anyone else?"

"No."

"You get any phone calls? Anyone come over?"

"No," Fazio repeated. "Why?"

"You know why," Gibbs said.

"You think I had something to do with Ferrara's death?" Fazio asked.

"Did you?"

There was silence. Gibbs could see Fazio wanted to deny it. Something was holding him back.

"I need to make a phone call," Fazio said.

"When we're done," Gibbs said.

"We're done," Fazio said. "I want a lawyer." He sat back and folded his arms over his chest.

"You sure? Once you cross that line, there's no going back," Gibbs warned.

"Under the UCMJ, I'm entitled to a lawyer if I ask for one, as soon as I'm a suspect in a crime," Fazio stated with no small amount of smugness. "I want a lawyer, and you have to stop questioning me until I get one." Gibbs stared at him, his eyes narrowing.

For five minutes or more, Gibbs stared. Fazio held his gaze for the first minute, then looked away. He rubbed at his head, scratched his neck, glanced at Gibbs and glanced away. He dried his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants, put them together on the table in front of him, looked at Gibbs, looked away. He let his gaze wander around the room, bouncing off the mirror, the walls, taking in the red light on the surveillance camera, then back to the table. Gibbs' stare never wavered. There was no sound but Fazio's nervous breathing and the low buzzing in Gibbs' ears.

"I'm not going to answer any more questions until I talk to a lawyer," Fazio said after several more minutes has passed.

"I'm not asking any questions," Gibbs replied. The staring continued. Another period of silence, maybe seven minutes this time, though Gibbs wasn't counting. His mind was wandering, and he felt himself start to drift away more than once. Across the table, Fazio continued to fidget. He'd started to sweat more profusely, though the temperature in the room hadn't changed, and he would occasionally swipe at his forehead with his sleeve.

"Well?" Fazio said finally.

"Well what?" Gibbs asked.

"Are you going to get me a lawyer?"

"Yes," Gibbs said. He knew he was on thin ice here. Under the UCMJ, once a service member requested a lawyer, that was it, game over for interrogation. Chances were that even if Fazio spontaneously admitted to the whole thing at this point, the confession could be thrown out on that technicality. What Gibbs was doing could easily be called intimidation, which was what the applicable articles of the UCMJ – and their civilian equivalent found in the Miranda decision – were designed to prevent. Still, Gibbs wanted to rattle this kid a little, see if it got him anywhere.

He kept it up another five minutes after that, then grabbed the edge of the table and stood suddenly, his chair sliding backwards and hitting the wall below the mirror. Fazio jumped. Gibbs looked him up and down, shook his head with apparent regret, then limped out of the room without another word.

McGee met him in the hall and held out the cane.

"Was he involved?" McGee asked.

"Hell yes, McGee. He was involved. He was probably one of the three Nicky saw."

"So what now, Boss?" he asked.

Gibbs took the cane from him and leaned against the wall. He stifled a yawn. He was well and truly whupped. Interrogations took a certain amount of physical energy, fast thinking, and a clear head. Toward the end, he'd had to fight to focus. "We book him for impersonating an agent, assault, using an explosive device, terrorism, whatever else might stick. Call the MPs at Anacostia. Be sure they keep him away from Radkoff."

"Should I call the JAG defense office?"

"They'll do it over there. Tell them he asked."

Gibbs limped back to the squad room. Ziva was sitting at her desk.

"Well?" he said to her as he dropped himself into his chair.

"Nicky said he was not sure," Ziva said.

"Damn it," Gibbs swore.

"He said if he had to choose one of those six, he would choose Fazio, but it might not be any of them."

"Yeah, alright. Anything on the car yet?"

"Not yet. And no one has shown up at Fazio's house."

"See what you can find on a Danny Lewis, possibly born October…" Gibbs did the math, "...1979. Probably Navy. Fazio says he's his roommate, and the guy who threw the flash-bang."

Ziva went to work on her computer. Gibbs picked up his desk phone to call DiNozzo, then glanced at his watch. Nearly midnight. Tony had said he'd call after he talked to Holbrook and before he went to bed. He should have called by now. Gibbs needed to update DiNozzo, and by extension, Capt. McNally. Especially since he was removing Fazio from the ship's crew. But Gibbs figured if Tony hadn't called yet, he had a good reason. Maybe he hadn't been able to get Holbrook alone.

On the other hand… a thought occurred and Gibbs wrestled his cell out of his jeans pocket. He'd silenced the ringer after ending the earlier call with Tony, not wanting a badly-timed ring to blow the operation in the warehouse. In the aftermath, he wasn't sure if he'd…

"So much for never being unreachable," Gibbs said out loud, making Ziva look up at him. He shook his head at her. He'd forgotten to turn the ringer back on, and there it was, the call from DiNozzo, twenty minutes ago. He clicked the ringer back up.

Not bothering to listen to the message, Gibbs called DiNozzo's cell. It went to voicemail and Gibbs swore again, silently this time. He hung up. Opening his desk drawer, he pulled out his NCIS phone directory. This time, he would call the Agent Afloat's office directly.

His cell rang on his desk while he was still looking up the number and he picked it up. Abby. He frowned. Abby was a night owl: It wasn't particularly late for her to be calling people. But it was awfully late for her to be calling him.

"Where are you?" Abby asked.

"Work. Why?"

"You're here?" she said.

"Where are you?" Gibbs asked, confused.

"Down in my lab. I did it. I got into Petty Officer Ferrara's journal."

Gibbs felt a spike of hope. "Something good?"

"I think so."

"Be right down," Gibbs said.

He stood up and immediately fell back into his chair as pain spiked through his knee. Ducky had said the shot wouldn't last long, but Gibbs had been hoping it would go a little longer than this. He tried again, standing carefully this time and gingerly placing weight on his leg. It held, but it hurt. Ziva had glanced up when he fell backwards, but quickly looked away.

Knowing he was on the edge of exhaustion and would need something more than adrenalin to help him think clearly at this point, Gibbs stopped for coffee from the machine in the commissary. It sucked, but it was hot and fully caffeinated. He briefly considered getting a Caf-Pow for Abby, then realized he wouldn't be able to carry coffee, Caf-Pow, and the cane at the same time.

Abby's head banger music was low, the lighting dim. She was sitting on one of the high chairs in front of her center console, staring intently at a computer screen.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked by way of greeting as he limped into the office.

"I was working on the prints from those flyers and fiddling with this while AFIS worked. Then McGee brought me the flash-bang canister and some DNA to type... Oh my gosh, what happened?" She'd turned in time to catch his last limping step before he leaned against her worktable.

"Had a little accident," Gibbs said, hoping she'd leave it alone. No such luck.

"What kind of accident? Is it your knee again? Have you been to the hospital? Of course you haven't, that's silly. Did Ducky see it?" She hopped off her stool and dragged the other one over to him.

"Abs, it'll be fine," Gibbs said as he sat. "What did you find?"

She scrutinized him closely, looking for the tell. Of all of them, Abby was best at seeing through him. She always had been.

"It's bad, isn't it?" she asked, her voice subdued.

"Ducky said it might be," Gibbs admitted. "But I'm still walking." He didn't think it necessary to tell her about the shot Ducky had given him. "What'd you find?" he repeated. She sighed and turned back to her computers.

"There were a bunch of prints on the flyers, lots of people with minor records, but only one came up Navy, a Petty Officer First Michael Fazio. He's due to report to the Roosevelt tomorrow, so he shouldn't be too hard to find."

"We've already got him," Gibbs said. "What about the canister?"

"Still running. It's a big database."

Gibbs nodded his understanding. "So what was in the journal?" he asked. Abby changed the view on her screen to a word processing program.

"It's definitely a journal. He started writing it during his rehabilitation, at the request of the therapist at Bethesda. I haven't had a chance to read very much of it yet, but the last few entries are important." She scrolled through some text. "He was afraid he'd been found out," she said. "And he was afraid he was going to Hell."

"Really?" Gibbs said.

"Yeah. There're two distinct lines of concern. On the one hand, he'd been talking about sinful desire. Somehow he'd gotten the idea that his homosexuality was something he could change, if he just worked at it hard enough. He'd been consulting various religious and secular programs for 'reforming' homosexuals, and was apparently trying to convince himself he was attracted to women. It wasn't working, though, and he was becoming depressed about it. There's a subtext in there about his 'new temptation.' I think he'd met someone new."

"A male someone?" Gibbs asked.

"Most definitely. Someone close to him, I think someone he worked with."

"That might have gotten him found out, if he was flirting with a straight man." Gibbs mused.

"It might have, but I don't think that's it. The other thing he was obsessing about was that he'd been found out and was going to be court-martialed. He'd told someone, fairly recently, and he thought it was a mistake."

"Who'd he tell?"

"Unclear. It's the last entry, two days before he was killed. Here, let me read it to you." She scrolled up a little and started to read.

"_It was a mistake, talking to him. I shouldn't have told him. I've kept the secret for so long. I shouldn't have said anything. It was stupid. But I needed to talk to someone. I thought he'd understand. I thought he'd help me. God, what have I done? All these years, keeping it to myself. Now they know. They might know. It feels like they know. The looks, the jokes. Everything's different. What if they come for me? I could quit. Tell the Captain I'm sorry, but it's not working out. I could still take disability. Escape. They'd wonder, but there'd be no proof. I don't want to quit. If I stay and get DD'd, this will all be for nothing. _

"_Why can't they just leave us alone? Why is it anyone's business who I love? Being a gay guy working with straight guys is exactly like straight guys working with married women. They're nice to look at, but you don't go after them. They don't hit on married women, I don't hit on straight guys. They don't have anything to fear from me. So why can't they just accept that and leave me alone? Why do I have to hide myself? Some days I hide so deep I'm not even sure I exist anymore. _

"_The weight of such a burden should be shared, shouldn't it? I thought he would understand. But he said it was wrong. Abhorrent in God's eye. Intentional evil. How can it be evil? It's so real, so much the center of who I am. It's not like I woke up one morning and decided to be gay. I've been this way forever. So how can it be my fault? How can this not be part of God's design? I have brown hair. I have brown eyes. I find men sexually attractive. I don't think I have any control over any of that. He said I could change, that I had to resist the temptation. But I've tried. God I've tried. He just doesn't understand. He thinks I have a choice. If it was a choice, why would I choose this? Wouldn't I choose normal? He doesn't understand. I really thought he could help."_

Abby stopped reading and turned to Gibbs, chewing on her lower lip.

"It's so sad, Gibbs. To have to live that way, never being able to be yourself. It's just not fair!" Her voice cracked and Gibbs saw her eyes were wet.

"He didn't have to join the Navy," Gibbs said. "He was smart, capable. He could have had a civilian career doing anything he wanted, for a business that didn't care about his orientation."

"But he wanted to serve his country. Why couldn't he? Why couldn't they just leave him alone?" She seemed almost lost, and her tears spilled over.

"Come here," Gibbs gestured her over to him. He pulled her in close, hugging her tightly.

"They're bastards, Abby. Small-minded, cowardly bastards."

"We're going to make them pay, right?" she asked against his shoulder.

"Count on it." She nodded. He held her for another minute before she pulled away.

"So, is it helpful?" she asked. "What he wrote?" She snatched a tissue out of a box on her computer console, pressing it to one eye, then the other.

"Maybe. There's nothing else on who he might have been talking to?"

"I'm working my way backwards," Abby said as she tossed the tissue into the trash. "He's been worrying about the state of his soul for awhile."

"The priest said he'd been upset about something. Asking about forgiveness for mortal sin."

"Being gay isn't a mortal sin," she said.

"It is if you consider it sexual immorality." Something clicked in Gibbs' memory. "The priest said Ferrara talked a lot about New Testament versus Old."

"That would fit," Abby said. "The Old Testament is pretty clear on the whole gay issue. But most modern religions believe the New Testament overrides the Old, and that ancient instructions are subject to modern interpretation."

Gibbs nodded, impressed once again by her quick mind. "Any idea when he first started worrying about being found out?"

Abby went back to the computer.

"Nothing that I've found yet. But I've only gone back about a week. I called you as soon as I realized I'd gotten in."

"Can you keep working it?" Gibbs asked.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said firmly. "I want to help get the dirtbags who did this."

"Okay," he said with a smile. Abby might have just been a scientist when she got here, but she was definitely one of them now. "See if you can find a date, or an event, that might have started him worrying about his soul. See if there're any names. I need to know who knew." Gibbs stood carefully, testing the weight on his leg before committing to a step. "Anything on the DNA McGee brought down?"

Abby shook her head fondly. "You know DNA takes time. Tomorrow."

"When you get it, the sample on the hat will be Fazio. If there's another, it's our unknown. I'm hoping one of them'll match the source from Ferrara." He started away.

"Are you going home?" she called after him.

"Bethesda," Gibbs said over his shoulder. "Ducky's orders. Call me if you find anything else."

"Will do." Gibbs stopped in the doorway and turned back, leaning against the frame.

"So how'd you get in?" he asked her. She smiled, looking almost embarrassed.

"I realized he had to have been writing it in English, then doing something to it before he saved it. So I reverted to the prior auto saved version. It's a little button in the program. I told it to revert, and it did. To English."

"That simple, huh?" Gibbs said.

"Sometimes it's the simple stuff that gets you. Go take care of you."

* * *

to be continued...

Thanks so much to those of you who are reviewing. I appreciate readers, but I appreciate reviewers more. Good to hear what I'm doing right. Or wrong. :o)


	29. Part 27

**One Less - Part 27**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

It was not a busy night at Bethesda. McGee checked him in while Gibbs leaned against the wall looking miserable. After McGee explained the nature of the injury, the triage nurse brought Gibbs a wheelchair. She told him to sit and ignored his threatening glare. She'd seen it thousands of times from thousands of sailors and Marines who'd come through her ER, and she wasn't fazed. She just stood there silently and smiled at him until he gave up and sat. She pushed him through into triage.

The nurse got his personal information, took his vitals, and found the information from his previous visits in the computer. She read the top few lines of his history. With a small "huh," she told him she'd be right back and disappeared. She returned less than five minutes later and escorted them to an exam room. She gave Gibbs a gown, told him to take off his boots and his pants, then left them. Gibbs told McGee to leave, but the young agent said he'd rather stay, to take Gibbs home. Gibbs glared at him, too. But like the nurse, McGee ignored him this time. He must be losing his touch. Or maybe his glare was as tired as he was.

Which was the point at which Gibbs remembered he still hadn't called Tony. He asked McGee to get his cell from his pants, and McGee reminded him that cell phones were blocked in this ER. With a grumble, Gibbs told McGee to step out and make the call.

"Tell him to update McNally on Fazio. His unit's gonna need a new Corpsman."

McGee did as instructed and quickly returned, taking a seat in a visitor's chair in the corner away from the door. Sitting on the side of the bed in the relative silence of the small room, Gibbs found his mind chewing on what Abby had read to him. Ferrara had told someone on the ship that he was gay. The sailor had expected to find support, but had been rebuffed. Then, a week later, he was killed for being gay.

Ferrara had written that it was the first time he'd ever told anyone he wasn't sure wanted to know. Gibbs assumed that meant he'd told other gay men, and further assumed – considering the other victims – that it wasn't one of them who'd killed him. So if it was the first time he'd ever admitted it to anyone, either the person he talked to was involved, or that person told someone else who was involved. The mystery confidant had told Ferrara that homosexuality was an intentional evil. Abhorrent. So the person he talked to had to be one of Col. Hatton's true believers.

Why had Ferrara told anyone? He was in trouble, doubting himself. He needed someone to talk to. He went to this person because he thought he would find support. Why? It was someone he thought he knew well, someone he trusted. One of the officers he was working with? The Captain himself? Nah, the Captain had made it clear that he didn't care that Ferrara was gay. Who then?

There was a sudden knock on the door, startling Gibbs from his thoughts. The door opened and in walked two men: one a stranger, the other a familiar face.

"Agent Gibbs. Sorry to hear you're back." The familiar man was Capt. Dr. Todd Gelfand, Chief of Emergency Services at the hospital. He was out of uniform, wearing gray sweats under his lab coat. His blond hair was tousled, and Gibbs wondered if he'd just woken up.

Gibbs had come to know Gelfand pretty well over the last few years. He had been Chief of Neurology at the Portsmouth Trauma Center when Gibbs was blown up in Norfolk Harbor in 2006. When he ended up on life support here at Bethesda after being drugged two years ago, Gelfand had overseen his care. Their history together had actually begun when Gelfand was a field surgeon in Kuwait: He'd helped put Gibbs' body back together after the mortar attack that nearly killed him. Gibbs knew the Captain had developed a soft spot for him, so it didn't really surprise him that Gelfand was here in the middle of the night.

"Captain. I'm sorry to be here. Nothing personal," Gibbs said with a wry smile. The two men shook hands. "My babysitter here is Special Agent McGee."

Gelfand smiled at them and shook McGee's hand. "I see nothing has changed." He turned to the man who'd come in with him. "He only comes down here under protest. I try not to take it personally." Turning back to Gibbs, he continued. "Dr. Mallard called me earlier, said to be expecting you. He told me what happened to your neck, and explained his concerns about your knee given your history of prior damage. I put a note in your chart telling triage to page me if you showed up."

"Just what I need, another damn conspiracy," Gibbs said. Gelfand shook his head.

"It's the good kind, Gunny. This is Dr. Bobby McNeil, one of our hotshot orthopods. I took the liberty of inviting him down to take a look at your knee, and he graciously agreed to come."

"Graciously agreed?" Gibbs asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Orders are orders, midday or midnight," McNeil said with an accent that was definitely south of the Mason-Dixon. His easy smile took the sting out of his words.

"So, what'd you do to it?" McNeil asked, stepping forward. He was about Gibbs' size, thinner, younger, with fine hands and long fingers. He pulled over a low stool on wheels and sat in front of Gibbs' dangling legs.

"Took a kick to the outside," Gibbs said, indicating where Ziva's boot had connected.

"Bad guy?" McNeil asked. He felt around his knee, much as Ducky had. His touch was feather-light.

"One of my team," Gibbs said. When McNeil gave him a startled look, Gibbs shook his head. "Long story. She didn't know it was me."

"Anything else I should know?" he asked.

"The kneecap was dislocated."

"Spontaneous reduction?" McNeil asked. It took Gibbs a beat to interpret the medical terminology.

"No. Ducky put it back."

"Ducky?"

"Dr. Mallard. He's their Medical Examiner," Gelfand supplied. That got Gibbs another odd look.

"He's also our field medic," McGee offered from where he'd stood to get out of the way.

"Ah. Did he sedate you?" McNeil asked Gibbs.

"A shot of something after. Wore off about a half hour ago."

"Can you move the joint?"

"Not comfortably," Gibbs said. McNeil put one hand under Gibbs foot and spread the fingers of his other hand over Gibbs' kneecap. He felt around the knee as he helped Gibbs straighten his leg.

"Did you walk in?"

"Yes."

"Comfortably?"

"No."

"Alright." McNeil straightened up and turned to Gelfand. "There's some ligament damage. He'll need an MRI. Do we have records on the prior injury?"

"They're in his military file," Gelfand said. McNeil nodded.

"How's the pain on a one to ten scale?" McNeil asked Gibbs.

"About a four just sitting here."

"You want something for it?"

"Nah," he said. Gelfand met Gibbs' gaze and rolled his eyes. They had history on that issue, too.

"Fair enough," McNeil said. "I'll order the MRI, take a look at your old records, give you my expert opinion on what's next."

"Alright," Gibbs said.

"Might take awhile," McNeil said. "We're not a trauma center, so they shut the machine down overnight. There's more to turning it back on than just flipping a switch. Plus they've got to get the tech in. So now that you're here – and we've got your pants – you can probably send your babysitter home."

"Right," Gibbs said with a slight drawl. McNeil smiled at him before stepping out. Gelfand moved in.

"How's your neck?" he asked. Gibbs tilted his head slightly away and Gelfand peeled back the gauze.

"Hurts. I'll live," Gibbs said.

"Barely," Gelfand said. "This was someone you like?"

Gibbs had to smile. "Most of the time."

Gelfand poked at the wounds a bit, making Gibbs cringe and hiss.

"She missed your carotid by about a half inch," Gelfand said.

"I heard."

"Some days you get lucky. How clean was the knife?"

Gibbs frowned at him. "I'm sure she cleaned it after the last time she stabbed somebody with it," he said.

Gelfand retaped the gauze. "How long since your last tetanus shot?" he asked.

"Couple years."

"I'm going to order you some antibiotics, just in case." He made a note in Gibbs' chart. "I'm also going to have a corpsman clean it up a bit. You don't need stitches, but we'll use some surgical glue to be sure it doesn't reopen."

Gelfand folded up the chart and headed out. "I'll come check on you in awhile. You look like crap. Try to sleep while you wait." Gibbs growled at him and Gelfand grinned as he left.

Gibbs again told McGee to go home, and this time, his junior agent said he would. He would keep his cell handy, he told Gibbs, and he was only 15 minutes away from Bethesda if Gibbs needed him. Gibbs waved him on. He'd be fine.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

A hand on his arm, throwing him into awareness. A scream, suddenly cut off. Danger. He instantly rolled away from the touch, his body hitting something solid. He threw up a hand to protect himself, hitting flesh. There was another cry, this one higher. Female. The hand came back, and another, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him down. He struggled, hard, trying to throw off the hands.

"Gunny! Stand down!" someone shouted. Gibbs froze, responding to the command in the voice. He looked wildly around, seeking the source of the order. He saw white walls, medical equipment. Capt. Gelfand standing inside the door. Bethesda.

"God," Gibbs said softly as he relaxed back against the reclined bed. He was gasping for breath, his heart pounding. The nurse who'd been holding his shoulders released him and straightened up. She had a bright red mark on her cheek, and Gibbs realized he must have hit her.

"Are you alright?" he asked her. She smiled at him and patted his shoulder.

"No worries, Marine. I've got twin three-year-old boys at home. I get hit harder than that breaking up fights over who gets the first turn with the Tonkas. Try to calm your breathing."

The nurse moved around the bed, taking his vitals, listening to his lungs.

"What happened?" he asked when she picked up his chart to make notes. He ran his hand over his face and concentrated on taking measured breaths.

"You were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you up, but you were screaming too loud to hear me. I should have used a stick." She smiled at him. "But everything looks fine now. I'll check back with you later." She closed his chart and slipped out. Gelfand pulled over the visitor's chair.

"So, you're having nightmares," Gelfand said as he sat.

"How long was I asleep?" Gibbs asked, ignoring the implied question. He rubbed the back of his head and scratched at his chin. His breathing was gradually slowing to normal. A quick self-inventory told him his knee was aching, the side of his neck was still numb from where the corpsman had closed the knife wound with surgical glue, the headache was back, and the buzzing in his ears was still there. As God was his witness, if those jackasses had caused permanent damage to his hearing, he was going to kill them both. Slowly.

"About an hour," Gelfand said. "The MRI tech just got here. It'll be another 45 minutes or so before he's ready for you." He looked Gibbs up and down. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"You don't look fine. You look beat up. And I don't just mean by your partner. How've you been sleeping?"

"Not well," Gibbs admitted.

"How come?" Gelfand asked.

"I gotta have a reason?"

"There usually is one," Gelfand said.

"Just the usual."

"Have you been self-medicating?"

"What?" Gibbs asked, startled.

"Sleeping pills, pain medicine, alcohol?"

"Couple of shots of bourbon usually does the trick," Gibbs said, with a touch of sarcasm.

"How often do you drink so you can sleep?" Gelfand asked, ignoring Gibbs' tone.

"Occasionally," Gibbs acknowledged. "Not often."

"Do you drink until you pass out? Or does the alcohol make you sleepy?"

Gibbs frowned, looking curiously at him. "What's this about, Doc?"

"Are you worried about your drinking?" Gelfand asked.

"No."

"Would Dr. Mallard be worried, if he knew how much you were drinking?"

Gibbs actually chuckled at that. "No."

Gelfand waited for an explanation, but Gibbs just looked at him.

"Okay," Gelfand said. "How's the pain?"

"It's fine. Tolerable."

"Headache?"

Gibbs looked at him strangely. "Yes."

"Since the stun grenade went off?" When Gibbs' strange look turned to a frown, Gelfand smiled slightly. "Ducky told me the whole story. Or as much of it as he knew."

Gibbs nodded his understanding. Of course Ducky did. "Before that. Couple days," he admitted. "Off and on."

"How's your vision?"

"Clear," Gibbs said.

"And your hearing?"

"Still buzzing, but it's not bad."

"How far were you from the detonation?"

Gibbs thought about it. "Ten, maybe fifteen feet. The guy threw it away from us. My eyes were completely covered, ears partially. My partner got the worst of it."

"That's why she attacked you?" Gelfand asked. "She didn't know it was you?"

"Yeah," Gibbs said. "I made the same mistake that nurse just did." Gibbs huffed a little. "Stupid. She coulda killed me."

"She could have," Gelfand agreed. He paused. "Is that what you were dreaming about?"

Gibbs shook his head. "No." But he didn't elaborate.

"You were screaming. Loud enough that I heard you in my office on the other side of the ER." Gibbs nodded, but said nothing. He'd suspected – once he came around enough to understand what the hell was going on – that it had been his own scream he'd heard cut off as he was shocked awake.

"Last thing I heard before Lt. Williams tried to wake you was a name. Shannon. If I remember correctly, she was your wife."

"Yeah," Gibbs said. He wasn't surprised that he'd been screaming her name. The substance of the dream had left him almost instantly, but he remembered Shannon's face. And Nicky's, the 'before' version from the Marine's SRB.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No," Gibbs said. Gelfand took a second before continuing.

"This isn't the first nightmare you've had about her," Gelfand said.

"It's not," Gibbs agreed.

"How long having you been having them?"

"Long time," Gibbs said. "Not regularly."

"But a lot lately?"

Gibbs stared at him. He did not like people prying into his personal life. And he'd had enough of people prying into his head.

"Leave it alone," he said in a tone that brokered no compromise.

Gelfand held his glare, unfazed. He finally nodded.

"Regardless of the result of the MRI, you're likely to be here for awhile longer. Best case, orthopedics is going to have to create a brace for it before you leave, which they can't do until the lab opens in the morning."

"I can't stay," Gibbs said. "I'm in the middle of a hot case."

"You need to stay, at the very least until we can figure out how best to support the knee so you can walk without doing more damage. That'll take a couple hours, minimum. But I've got a deal for you," he said.

"Don't you always?" Gibbs asked, and Gelfand smiled.

"Carrot and stick, Agent Gibbs. How long's it been since you had a good night's sleep?"

"It's been awhile," Gibbs said.

"I can see by looking at you that you're exhausted," Gelfand said. "You need to stay here and you need to sleep. But I don't want you scaring the nurses with another round of screaming. So how 'bout I give you a sedative. It'll take away the pain, let you sleep without dreams for a solid eight hours. You can sleep through the MRI and whatever work ortho can do without your feedback. When you wake up, if McNeil says you don't need surgery right away, we'll brace the knee and you can be back to work by noon, feeling rested."

Gibbs considered it. With the pain he was feeling, he was going to need some help to see this case through. And he could certainly admit to himself that it would be a hell of a lot easier to get through the next couple days if he could get at least one solid night's sleep.

"Am I going to feel hung over?" Gibbs asked.

"Not likely. If you do, it'll be less of a hangover than the one you get from the bourbon."

"Can you shorten it? Six hours instead of eight? I'm working a serial case, and we're running out of time."

"Yeah, I can do that," Gelfand said after a moment's thought. When Gibbs still hesitated, Gelfand pushed him, just a little.

"Trust me, Gunny. I know how important what you do is. Let me help."

Gibbs considered him, the nodded once.

"Fine. I need to make a phone call first."

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

DiNozzo and Fredrick had spent half the night talking about the assaults and tossing around ideas. Fredrick had come back from his visit to the Captain's office determined to earn his right to stay aboard. DiNozzo didn't feel comfortable prying into it, but he would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that one. For investigative purposes, and for plain curiosity. It wasn't every day that a Navy Fleet Captain changed his mind on discipline. Fredrick must have worked it hard.

DiNozzo managed to corral Holbrook after his shift, and they went to the chapel again. The young officer was horrified to discover he'd become a target so quickly, and had initially asked if he shouldn't take emergency leave, get the heck out of Dodge as it were. DiNozzo figured the Captain would make it happen if he was made to understand the reason. Instead, he told Holbrook what Gibbs had told him: He was safe on board at least until the ship made its next port, and if he left, they might starting looking for another target. Holbrook agreed to stop asking questions, and to watch his back.

After McGee called with the update, Fredrick and DiNozzo had come up with a list of sailors known to associate with Fazio. Most of them were other corpsmen or medical personnel, most of which weren't aboard yet, and none of which would have been officially logged on or off the ship last Saturday night. Fredrick knew some of them, and would go to work on them as quickly as he could once they came aboard today. All personnel were to be here by 1600, and then they'd have 24 hours of a completely captive crew before the ship sailed.

They'd also done some brainstorming on who might be at the head of the conspiracy. They figured it had to be an officer: If officers were involved in some of the attacks as Goetz had surmised, they would only take orders from another officer. DiNozzo called Abby for her list of officers who'd been on the ship since she sailed in 2003, and Fredrick had read it. None of them stood out.

Tired and out of ideas, they called it a night sometime around 3 a.m. As he had the previous nights, Fredrick fell asleep almost immediately. Tony lay awake, staring at the ceiling of his borrowed rack, trying to pull out a miracle.

* * *

to be continued...

Sorry friends, but the Bethesda scene was just too long to put in one chunk. The next section, where we find out what all's wrong with Gibbs' knee (and where Gibbs and company find a big chunk of what they've been looking for) will be up soon. Promise. joy


	30. Part 28

**One Less - Part 28**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs woke just before 8:30 to the smell of coffee. It took a second to remember where he was, and another minute to realize both his headache and the buzzing in his ears were gone. He was lying flat on his back – the position he'd fallen asleep in – but it surprised him nonetheless. He was supposed to have been moved at least once for the MRI and thought he should have woken for that at least. Opening his eyes, he saw an IV port with nothing attached to it in his left hand and a blood pressure cuff around his right bicep. Stiff spots on his chest told of the presence of a heart monitor. He looked over his head and found the monitor, tracking his heart beat and respirations, and showing his last blood pressure. Reading it upside down, Gibbs thought it looked normal. He actually felt really good.

"Morning, Boss," came a voice. Gibbs turned his head to see McGee sitting in the visitor's chair, sipping coffee from a travel mug. He was dressed for work.

"You bring some of that for me, McGee?" he asked, his voice rough. He swallowed a couple of times to moisten this throat. McGee leaned down and picked a small thermos and another travel mug off the floor under his chair.

"Sure did," McGee said with a smile that made Gibbs think of Tony in 'show-up' mode. "I wasn't sure when you'd wake up, so I put it in a thermos. It's not a lot, but it'll get you started. Can you sit up?"

Gibbs grabbed the rails on both sides of the bed and hauled himself upright. He felt a twinge in his back from where he'd landed on his Sig. Not serious, just present. He was still in the hospital gown, but there was a new addition: a white Velcro and canvas knee brace that covered his leg from mid-thigh to just above his ankle. It kept his leg straight, his knee locked.

"Here you go," McGee said, and handed the mug to Gibbs, who tentatively sipped at it.

"Not bad. Where'd you buy it?" Gibbs asked.

"I made it. At my house."

Gibbs nodded his approval. "You been here long?"

"Not long. I called in for messages before I left my house."

Gibbs had left a message on McGee's office voicemail after accepting Gelfand's deal last night. He'd told his junior agent what was happening, and asked McGee to pick him up after he got in. Gibbs nodded and drank more of the coffee.

"Abby called me," McGee said. "She worked most of the night, and said she won't be in until late, unless you need her."

"She give you any results?"

"She said there's a partial palm print on the flash-bang canister. She can't use it to find a match in the database, but when we get a suspect, it'll be useful. The other prints on the flyers didn't match any other Navy personnel. The DNA isn't back yet."

Gibbs gave a sigh of disappointment. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. "She find anything else in the journal?" he asked.

"She finished reading it. There was nothing to say who he'd been talking to, or who he'd become interested in. But she said to tell you he started getting sad in May of 2008."

Gibbs frowned. That was right after Goetz's attack.

"She say if it had any connection to Master Chief Goetz?"

McGee nodded. "She said he mentioned it in passing, but he didn't say anything about Goetz being gay, or why he was attacked. He talks about them like they were friends."

Gibbs gave that some thought. Goetz had said they'd known one another casually, mostly through Goetz's role as corpsman, and that they'd chatted occasionally. So it was reasonable Ferrara could have considered them friends, within the limitations of two men so far apart in rank. Goetz was 10 months gone before Ferrara went looking for someone to talk to, but if they'd been anything more than casual acquaintances, maybe Goetz had an idea of who Ferrara might have found. Still, if that was the case, why hadn't Goetz mentioned that when Gibbs interviewed him?

In mid-sip, Gibbs suddenly stopped. Ferrara was in trouble. He needed someone to talk to. Goetz had said that he and his partner had been having some problems, but he'd talked to an old friend and gotten some advice on how to work it out. When Ziva asked Hutchinson if his partner knew he'd been clubbing, he'd said he'd originally kept it a secret until a friend of his convinced him to tell.

"They're all talking to the same damn person," Gibbs said aloud.

"Uh, Boss?" McGee said. Gibbs turned to him.

"Get the doctor in here. It's time to go."

McGee nodded and quickly stepped out.

Why the hell had it taken him so long to make that connection? Both Goetz and Hutchinson had said they hadn't told anyone they were gay. Yet both had also said they'd been discussing their problems with friends. He supposed he'd dismissed it, assuming each was talking to a gay friend. But Gibbs' gut was telling him he'd finally found the key to the whole thing. There were any number of people they all could have been talking to, but only one that made sense.

Gibbs looked around for his clothes. He didn't see them. He felt around for the catch to release the bed rails and couldn't find that either. Screw it. He pushed himself down the bed to the end and gently slid off. He stood on his left leg, balancing with the aid of the bed rail. He tentatively shifted his weight to his right leg. Pain made itself known, but it held.

Hitching a hip on the end of the bed, Gibbs undid the blood pressure cuff from his arm and tossed it in the general direction of the hook it was supposed to hang on. It missed. With a mental shrug he unsnapped the leads for the heart monitor. It began to alarm. Gibbs knew that would probably bring a nurse in fairly short order, but that would be fine. He bent over to look under the gurney he'd been sleeping on. His clothes and boots were there. He snagged the strings on the plastic bag holding his clothes and dragged it out. Moving cautiously and keeping as much weight off his right leg as he could, Gibbs moved to the chair McGee had vacated. He dropped carefully into it and started dressing.

He'd managed to get both legs into his jeans and the jeans as high as the widest part of the knee brace when the door opened. But instead of a nurse, Capt. Gelfand came in, McGee on his heels.

"Good morning, Agent Gibbs. Eager to leave are we?" He silenced the monitor alarm.

"Got work to do," Gibbs said.

"How do you feel?" Gelfand asked him.

"Very well. Can you give me some of that stuff to take home?" Gibbs pulled on his left sock, then tried to reach down for his right. His arms weren't long enough to get to his foot.

"Not a good idea. Without proper medical supervision, it'd just as likely kill you as give you a good night's sleep." Gelfand paused while Gibbs struggled to work the denim up over the brace.

"It's not going to work, Gunny. I'll bring you some scrubs as soon as Dr. McNeil is done with you."

"How long?" Gibbs asked, straightening and giving up on the jeans. He kicked them off.

"He's in the hospital somewhere. I'll have him paged."

Gibbs nodded. "Is Master Chief Goetz on duty yet?"

Gelfand frowned. "From the medical school?" he asked. Gibbs nodded again. "I can find out."

"I need to talk to him. In person, as soon as possible."

The curiosity was clear on Gelfand's face, but he didn't ask. "I'll see if I can find him. McNeil should be here shortly."

The doctor left and McGee moved closer. "What're you thinking, Boss?" he asked.

"Goetz and Hutchinson both said they were having trouble with their partners and talked to someone about it."

McGee looked at him, trying to understand. "So even though they said they didn't tell anyone about their orientation, they had to have told at least one person each," McGee said. When Gibbs agreed, he continued. "And according to his journal, Ferrara was talking to someone about his orientation specifically." Gibbs cocked his head, waiting. They had a little time. He knew McGee was a smart kid, and Gibbs enjoyed watching the young agent's mind work. When they had the time.

"According to Radkoff, and the DNA we've got," McGee went on, "those three attacks involved at least five or six different people. It's not likely that each of the victims talked directly to someone who later independently talked to someone else who then attacked him. So they probably all talked to the person running the conspiracy, or to someone who knows who's running it and passed the information along. Taking that into consideration, odds are they all talked to the same person."

Gibbs nodded again. "And who would that be?"

"For that kind of subject, it would have to be someone they really thought they could trust. Probably an officer, because Lt. Hutchinson wouldn't have talked to an enlisted man about something so personal. It wouldn't have been just any officer, though. It'd have to be someone who'd be willing to sit and listen." McGee thought it through, then his eyes widened. "The victims are all Catholic," he said.

"Uh huh," Gibbs said. The realization had come to him only a few seconds after he sent McGee to find the doctor. The one person most likely to have spoken to all three men – and the rest of victims – about issues of the heart. And soul.

"It's the priest," McGee said.

"Uh huh," Gibbs repeated.

"But that doesn't make any sense," McGee said. "A priest is sworn to keep secrets like that. Even outside confession. That's why people talk so freely to them. Because they don't tell. They take an oath."

"A covenant between man and God," Gibbs said, quoting Col. Hatton.

"So why would he do this?" McGee asked.

"Who the hell knows why the bastards do anything they do?" Gibbs asked in response.

"We don't know he's doing it," McGee countered. "Maybe he's talking to someone he's supposed to be talking to, and that person is doing it."

Gibbs considered that. Who do priests tell their secrets to? Other priests, he supposed. But there was only one aboard the Roosevelt. There were other ministers of other faiths, but it wasn't likely a Catholic priest would break the seal of confessional to talk to a Rabbi or an Imam.

"It's one too many persons removed," Gibbs said. "What're the chances they all talked to the priest, and he talked to someone else who happened to have a burr in his butt about gays?"

"The victims might have been talking to someone else. Doesn't the medical staff on a carrier include therapists, mental health counselors, people like that?" McGee asked. Gibbs looked at him strangely.

"You Catholic, McGee?" Gibbs asked. He was certain he would have known that. But the way McGee was trying to dissuade him, Gibbs thought maybe McGee had something vested in it not being the priest.

"No," McGee said. "It's just wrong. If a priest is learning things like this, in confession or not, then using the information against the men... it's just wrong."

"Yeah, it is," Gibbs agreed. "But my gut tells me that's what we've been missing."

"But we asked Goetz and Hutchinson if they'd talked to anyone. Why didn't they mention the priest?" Before Gibbs could speak, McGee answered his own question. "Because telling the priest probably never even crossed their minds as significant. They'd never imagine he'd be involved in this."

Gibbs nodded again and McGee fell silent for a minute. "So what now? He won't talk to us. He can just claim priest penitent privilege and keep his mouth shut and we won't be able to touch him. We need independent corroboration."

"Master Chief Goetz will give it to us," Gibbs said confidently.

"Then what?" McGee pushed.

"Well I don't know, McGee. Maybe you should tell me what's next. Are Abby and I the only ones doing any work around here?"

McGee's eyes widened. He stuttered for a second, then found something. "Fazio's roommate. Ziva left a message too. She couldn't find anything last night. Daniel Lewis is too common a name. There's no record of a Daniel Lewis with that year of birth currently serving in the Navy, and there's couple hundred civilians with that name in the tri-state. If Fazio lied about his roommate's name, I should see if I can find out who's really paying the other half of the rent on his house."

"You should. Soon as you run me home so I can change," Gibbs said. He paused. "How long was Ziva there last night?"

"She left the message at 1:30 this morning, right before she left to go sit on Fazio's house with Norfolk PD," McGee said. "The search warrant was approved, but for daytime entry only. She wanted to be sure no one slipped in and out before we could serve it." Gibbs sighed. Abby and Ziva had worked all night, McGee was with him most of it. DiNozzo slept like crap on a carrier, even if he hadn't spent the night working the case. Gibbs was the only one of his team who'd had a good night's sleep, and he was among the walking wounded. Barely walking. It was going to be a hell of a day.

"Have you heard from her this morning?"

"Not yet."

Gibbs checked his watch. In the state of Virginia, daylight warrant service hours began at 8 a.m. If Ziva had gone ahead with the search as soon as legally allowed, it would be well underway by now.

"Call her. Find out if they've gone in yet."

McGee nodded and slipped out. Gibbs sat in the silence, thinking through their next moves. Search Fazio's house, ID his roommate, confirm if he was the other guy from the warehouse. Take Fazio's picture to the guy at the sporting goods store, see if he could pick him out. Confirm that Goetz talked to the priest. Hutchinson, too. Match Fazio's DNA to what Ducky had found under Ferrara's nails. Hopefully. Which reminded him: Anacostia would have examined Fazio for pre-existing injuries when they booked him in. He'd have to call them to see if Fazio had any that could have come from the fight Ferrara put up. And another thing: The boot prints in the warehouse, from the night Ferrara was killed and from the night someone came looking for Nicky. They'd have to look for matching boots in Fazio's house. Or on his feet, for that matter. Damn it. They should have collected the boots he was wearing last night. Gibbs had definitely needed a good night's sleep.

McGee returned. "They went in half an hour ago. Ziva's supervising the search. The roommate's name is actually Sheldon Daniel Lewiston. Goes by Danny. She had NPD run him, with his correct birth date. He's Navy, a Petty Officer Second assigned to the Roosevelt. Hasn't reported aboard yet. I told the deck officer to alert us when he shows up."

"If he shows up," Gibbs said. He figured a desertion charge would be the least of Lewiston's worries at this point, assuming he was involved with Ferrara. They both turned as Dr. McNeil pushed through the door, a set of crutches over his shoulder.

"No," Gibbs said as soon as he saw them.

"It's only until we can get you in for surgery," McNeil said.

"What?" Gibbs and McGee said simultaneously.

"You want the babysitter to step out?" McNeil asked, glancing at McGee.

"He's fine. Surgery?" Gibbs said.

"Capt. Gelfand told me you're in a bit of a hurry to get out of here," McNeil said as he took a seat and leaned the crutches against the wall. "So I'm not going to bother with my famous bedside manner, work you up to it slowly, hit you with all the positives in glowing language before slipping in the negative. Your ACL, MCL and lateral meniscus are all torn to some degree. They're going to need to be surgically repaired, the sooner the better."

"She did all that with one kick?" McGee asked. Gibbs threw him a look.

"No, she didn't," he said.

"No, she didn't," McNeil agreed. "The prior damage, a couple of bone spurs, and a long history of chrondomalacia significantly weakened the knee. The kick shoved the whole joint off kilter, then I'm guessing you either fell on it or knelt on it."

Gibbs nodded. "Both. She was trying to cut my throat. I wasn't too worried about my knee."

"I heard, and I'm not saying it wasn't necessary," McNeil said. "In any event, the pressure you put on the joint while it was out of alignment did the rest of the damage. If you want it fixed here, I could do it on Monday. If you've got your own doctor, give me his name and I'll send over the films. Meanwhile, you've got to stay off it. There's still more damage you could do, and I'm assuming you don't want to retire yet."

"Hell no," Gibbs said.

"I didn't think so. You're not there yet, but if you keep damaging it, you're going to need a total knee replacement. After which, running, jumping, anything high impact will be out of the question permanently. Which I'm pretty sure will mean an office job, or retirement."

Gibbs took a breath. "And I can avoid all that by using the crutches now," he said. Behind McNeil, Capt. Gelfand came in with a set of scrubs in hand. He let the door close behind himself and leaned on it. The room was crowded with the four of them in it.

"You can avoid all that by having the surgery as soon as possible, then precisely following a recovery plan until it heals. And until you have the surgery, the crutches."

"It's no wonder I hate coming here," Gibbs muttered.

"Yeah, like it's our fault," Gelfand spoke up. "You live dangerously, Gunny. It's your choice, you love it, and sometimes this is the consequence."

"Alright. What about the brace?" Gibbs asked, tapping gently on it.

"It'll keep your knee completely immobile, and if you absolutely need to, you can walk on it. But every ounce of weight you put on it will bring you closer to failure. Keep the brace on 24/7 until surgery. You can take it off to use ice and heat if it swells, but do not – do not – put any weight on the leg without the brace. Don't get it wet, you won't like the smell. Absolutely no running even if you think you can. No driving. Don't get into any situations where a quick exit is required."

"Right," Gibbs agreed with a touch of sarcasm. McNeil looked at him and shook his head. There was a clear expression of exasperation on his face. He glanced at Gelfand, who smiled almost fondly.

"You can do whatever you want, but those're my instructions. I've put a lot of sailor's knees back together. Most of them return to duty of some kind. Do what I'm telling you and you'll have a good chance at getting back to your life. Don't, and you won't. Anything else?"

"Nope," Gibbs said.

"You're going to need some pain management," McNeil said, and took a prescription pad out of his pocket. He started writing, still talking. "I'm going to keep it light, because frankly at this point, a little pain is a good thing. It shouldn't be more than an ache if you're staying off it, and OTC analgesics will take care of that. If you start walking on it, it's going to hurt worse. That'll be your clue to stop." He ripped off the sheet and held it out to Gibbs, who took it without looking. "Take these if you can't handle it anymore. They'll also help you sleep. Take 400 of ibuprofen every six hours for swelling. Let me know if you want me to do the surgery. I'll need a little notice to work my schedule."

Gibbs sighed. "As soon as this case wraps. Couple days. A week at most."

"Excellent. Call the orthopedics office. They'll set it up. Meanwhile, let's get you out of here."

"Here's the scrubs," Gelfand said and handed them to Gibbs. "Master Chief Goetz is teaching. His class breaks at 9:45. He'll meet you in his office."

Gibbs nodded his thanks to both. Gelfand took his leave, and McNeil went to work. He first helped Gibbs pull on the scrub pants and put on his socks and one boot while Gibbs took off the gown and put on the scrub shirt. McNeil adjusted the crutches based on Gibbs' height, then had him stand, leaning on McGee for support.

"I'm assuming you've used these before?" McNeil asked when he was done with the fit.

"It's been awhile," Gibbs admitted.

"You'll want to wear a boot or shoe on your good foot as much as possible, and keep the other one bare or with something thinner. With the knee locked straight, you're likely to trip if both legs are the same length."

Gibbs nodded his understanding. McNeil gave him one boot to put on, had him take a few steps to show he could, then pronounced him ready to leave.

"If you're going across to the medical school, you're probably going to want a wheelchair," McNeil said.

"No thanks. The babysitter will drive me around," Gibbs said. McNeil sighed, and nodded.

"Call me," he said, and left them.

* * *

to be continued...

I'm appreciating the feedback I'm getting on this story, more than you know. Special thanks to the newcomers who've chimed in. If you're reading, why not offer your two cents? Talk really is cheap! :o)


	31. Part 29

**One Less - Part 29**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

It was like riding a bike, Gibbs figured, as he got into the swing of using the crutches. It had been many years since he was last injured enough to need them, but the skill wasn't lost. He'd put his jacket on and moved his holstered sidearm around to the front of his belt to get it out of the way. The jacket bunched uncomfortably under his arms, but it was workable.

They stopped in the hospital cafeteria for a quick breakfast and more coffee. McGee's was better, but the hospital's brew would do. The problem, Gibbs quickly realized, was that he couldn't work the crutches and carry coffee too. He was relegated to drinking the entire cup while sitting at one of the cafeteria's many small tables before leaving the empty behind and swinging his way out to the car. This was definitely going to suck.

The sky had finally cleared, no trace of storm clouds in the bright blue sky. The temperature had risen as well. It was still cold, but it was above freezing. Might even be heading for a pleasant day. For winter in Washington.

McGee drove them across the hospital's campus to the building containing Goetz's office. Gibbs was silent for the ride, trying to figure out how to best get what he needed from Goetz. Their recent conversation had ended with the beginnings of an improved relationship between them, but this was still not going to be easy. One thing Gibbs was certain of was that however he approached Goetz, it was likely to go better if they were alone.

"Wait for me out here," Gibbs said as McGee parked in front of the building. McGee looked at him with surprise. And concern, he thought. Gibbs didn't usually explain his decisions, but he figured the kid deserved a little something. If for no other reason that that he'd remembered to bring coffee.

"We have history. He's not likely to want to talk with you there, and I don't want to force him. Call Anacostia and have them send Fazio's boots to Abby, and get their intake report. I wanna know if he had any injuries."

McGee nodded and Gibbs swung his leg out of the car. McGee brought the crutches around and with a minimum of struggle, Gibbs was on his feet. He hobbled into the building and down the long hall to Goetz's office.

Gibbs knocked and opened the door at Goetz's shout. This time, Goetz was working at a laptop, surrounded by papers. He was again wearing green scrubs. His new uniform, Gibbs realized.

"I don't have a lot of time, Gibbs. I cut my last class short and my next one starts in," he glanced up at the clock above his head. "Fifteen minutes." He turned to look at Gibbs over his reading glasses and his eyes widened. "What happened to you?"

"Little accident." Gibbs dismissed his concern. "There's been a development in your case." He hopped over to the visitor's chair and carefully lowered himself into it.

"My case?" Goetz said, surprised. He took off his glasses and set them on the desk. "How so?"

"We think we know how you were outed."

Goetz frowned. "How?"

"You said when we talked earlier that you and..." Gibbs searched his memory for the name. "Lt. Commander McDougall had been having some personal trouble."

"So?" Goetz said.

"You said you'd been talking to an old friend, getting some advice on how to make it work."

"Yes," Goetz said. "We were working it out. It would have been fine."

"Lt. Hutchinson had been going out to gay bars while in foreign ports and hiding it from his partner. He felt like he was cheating and asked an old friend to help him figure out how to come clean."

Goetz cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. Gibbs could see that had twigged something in his mind. He gave him the last piece.

"After you left the Roosevelt, Petty Officer Ferrara started to wonder about his sexuality, and its impact on his eternal soul. So he talked to someone he thought would be able to help him understand his desires. Instead, he was told what he was doing was sexual immorality, an intentional evil."

"Son of a bitch," Goetz said suddenly, his voice soft. He sat for a second with unfocused eyes, then hit the desk with his fist and shouted. "Son of a bitch!"

"You know who he talked to?" Gibbs asked. "Who you all talked to?" Goetz looked up.

"Of course I know who it is. It's the only straight person I've ever told I was gay, other than you. Commander Father Andrew Thayer. Lead Chaplain on the U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt." He literally spat out the name.

Gibbs nodded. There it was. Their corroboration.

"How do you know what Ferrara talked to him about?" Goetz asked suddenly.

"He kept a journal. Encrypted on a flash drive he kept with him at all times. We found it on his body, but didn't get it open until last night."

"Did he name any names?"

"No."

Goetz stilled, his mind racing. His eyes went back to middle distance as he thought. "How long after he talked to Father Andrew was he attacked?" he asked.

"A few days at most."

"I'd been talking to him regularly, about other things. For years. I started talking about... that... about a month before I was attacked. We were at sea from then until we made port. In Crete."

Gibbs nodded his understanding. Both Goetz and Ferrara were attacked at the first opportunity after they told the priest they were gay.

Goetz shook his head. "All of the victims were Catholic. Of course we were talking to him. How did I not see that?"

"You trusted him," Gibbs said. "And rightly so."

"But we were all Catholic," Goetz repeated. "I should have made the connection. All Catholics go to confession eventually." Goetz looked sharply at Gibbs. "He's doing this under the guise of confession."

"Yes," Gibbs agreed with the obvious.

"No, I mean both sides of it. There's no private confessional on ship. We do it face to face. So he knows who he's talking to. And because of the particular nature of the role aboard ship, there isn't always the division between confession and counsel."

Goetz could see Gibbs wasn't getting the significance of what he was saying. He tried to explain. "In a normal priest-penitent relationship, you give confession to whatever priest is inside the box, and get spiritual or life counsel from the deacon or priest you know and trust the most. But aboard ship, with only one priest and a handful of RPs assisting, the two roles are interchangeable. It's not unusual to start out intending to confess sin and ending up having long conversations about everything from the meaning of life to the annoyance of the guy who forgets to flush.

"I didn't 'confess' to sexual immorality. We were talking about the trouble I was having in my relationship with Bill. But I didn't give his name, or his gender, on purpose. After awhile, I just slipped. Then for him, it was all about being gay. I didn't want to talk about it, but he always managed to bring it up." Goetz shook his head at the memory.

"Anyway, with that kind of lack of definition between confessor and counselor, it would be easy for him to use the time sailors are in confession to spread our secrets, tell the actual attackers who's been sinning and what they should do about it. So the attackers have to be Catholic, too." Goetz paused again. "What if that's not all he's telling?"

Gibbs frowned.

"He's got access to the secret sins of half the ship. The deep, dark stuff no one's supposed to know. He's probably got plenty of blackmail material. He might even have national security stuff." He stopped again and refocused on Gibbs. "The Captain and the XO are both Catholic. They've got code word clearance."

That was something Gibbs hadn't even considered. If the priest had broken his vows about one thing, odds were even that it wasn't the only thing. He had to get the priest off the ship now, before any more damage was done.

"So what are you gonna do? You have to get him off the ship." Goetz echoed Gibbs' internal thoughts.

"If we can get a warrant, I'll have my man on board arrest him. If not, I'll probably go down there myself, try to get him to confess."

"It won't work," Goetz said. "He doesn't have to talk to you. He'll stand behind clergy privilege, and no court in the country will make him talk."

"You got a better idea?" Gibbs asked.

"Is Commander Pauley still TR's chief surgeon?" Goetz asked. Gibbs frowned.

"Yes," he said. What did that have to do with anything?

"Can you get me a walk-on? To visit with my old CO before they sail?"

"Probably. Why?" Gibbs asked.

"Because when I'm done talking to him, I might feel compelled to check in with my former spiritual counselor, maybe give one more confession for old times' sake."

Gibbs gave him a look that clearly said he had no idea where Goetz was going with this. Goetz's return look was one of exasperation.

"If I can talk to him, I can get him to tell me why he's doing it," Goetz said firmly, as if he was stating the rising of the sun.

"Just like that?" Gibbs asked with more than a touch of disbelief. He doubted Goetz had any idea of what he was claiming to be capable of. Interrogation wasn't for amateurs.

"He was my priest for almost five years. I know him. He's got a very healthy ego. If I finally confess my 'sin of sexual immorality,' he'll be more than happy to explain how he helped me see the light by doing what he did."

Finally understanding what Goetz had in mind, Gibbs acknowledged to himself that it made some kind of sense, and that Goetz might actually be able to pull it off. But it didn't overcome the basic problem.

"Won't matter," Gibbs said. "The privilege still stands. Nothing he says to you can be used against him."

Goetz looked at him curiously, a small smile appearing. "You don't know, do you?" he asked.

"Know what?" Gibbs said, suddenly feeling a little perturbed. The expression on Goetz's face clearly told him he was missing something, and that always pissed him off.

"The privilege is mine. Not his. If I go in there as a penitent and we have a conversation, I can testify to anything he says, and I can release him from confidentiality so he has no protection. Hell, I could go in there with a tape recorder and play the whole thing for the jury."

Gibbs frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, Gibbs. I've been Catholic a long time. Check your law. The holder of the privilege is the penitent, just like it's the patient who holds the privilege between doctor and patient. Any parishioner can testify about what went on in confession, if he wants to. It's only the priest who's bound by confidentiality."

Gibbs was taken aback. He supposed it made sense. The legal technicalities of privilege were way above his pay grade, the kind of thing lawyers dealt with. It had never come up for him before.

"You'd do that?" Gibbs asked. "Set him up like that?"

"Damn straight. He betrayed me. Betrayed all of us. He broke his covenant with God and because of that, two men are dead, and ten others – including me – will never be the same. You get me on that ship, and I'll get him to talk."

"Okay then," Gibbs said with a touch of predatory satisfaction. "Let's go."

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

They agreed to meet at the Navy Yard in an hour. Goetz had to arrange to cancel his classes and Gibbs still needed to change clothes. Gibbs hobbled out to the sedan to find McGee working his laptop in the front passenger seat. McGee jumped out and took the crutches from Gibbs. Once they were both back in the sedan and on the road, McGee told Gibbs what he'd found.

"Fazio's roommate is a Religious Programs Specialist. An RP2. He works with the priest."

"There it is," Gibbs said.

"The link between Fazio and Thayer," McGee confirmed. "I'm tracking his credit and debit accounts. He spent $75 at a drug store in Woodbridge, Virginia just before 10 p.m. last night, then another $40 at a market about two blocks from the drug store."

"Medical supplies and food," Gibbs said. "He's trying to manage the wound himself. Anything else?"

"Gas at a truck stop off the I-95 north of Ashland around midnight. Nothing since."

Gibbs pictured the map in his mind. "He headed back to Norfolk," he said.

"Looks like it. I updated the BOLO with his likely location and direction of travel. Nothing yet."

Gibbs nodded. "Master Chief Goetz confirmed the priest. We're going down there this afternoon to talk to him."

"You think he'll talk?" McGee asked, surprised.

"Goetz thinks he can get him to admit it on tape."

"Can we use it if he does?"

"Apparently, we can," Gibbs said. "The privilege belongs…"

McGee interrupted, suddenly excited. "To the penitent, not the priest. Of course."

"You knew that?" Gibbs asked, turning to look at his junior agent.

"Uh, yes," McGee said with hesitation. "You didn't?" Gibbs gave an exasperated sigh.

"Do I look like a lawyer, McGee?"

McGee shut up.

At Gibbs' house, Gibbs gave some consideration to trying to get up the stairs to his bedroom, but quickly decided it wouldn't be worth it. He sent McGee up to get him clothes, then shaved and washed up in the downstairs bathroom. He didn't have the time or the inclination to figure out how to shower without getting the brace wet. Maybe tonight.

His chinos went on over the brace, though it was a tight fit. The crutches would wreck any sport coat he wore, so Gibbs chose to stick with just a polo shirt. Besides, it was Friday. He slipped his holster on forward of where it usually rode, to keep it out of the way of the crutches. He'd have to toss them before he could draw, but he wasn't anticipating trouble. Nonetheless, he had never been comfortable going unarmed while on duty. He put on one brown work boot, then had McGee help him slip a sock and a similarly-colored boat shoe onto the other foot. It wasn't pretty, but it would do. He grabbed the bottle of pills Ducky had given him for his headache, what, two days ago? They would do for any pain the knee decided to throw at him today. He hoped.

On the way back to the Yard, Gibbs checked in with Ziva. She reported the house was mostly empty of personal belongings. That made sense since last night was to be the sailors' last in the house before reporting aboard. Like military personnel everywhere, if they didn't own a home they would have sent their stuff to a local storage facility before deploying.

Ziva said all the furniture was still in place. She thought it probably came with the house. The beds were made, not slept in. Each man's bedroom closet had one service uniform hanging in it. She'd found two garment bags and two sea bags packed and ready to go. In Lewiston's sea bag, she'd found one prepared flash-bang and four reload kits. That matched with the total of six reloads the owner of the sporting goods store had reported selling a couple of uniformed sailors earlier in the week. There was one set of waffle-soled boots in each bag, Lewiston's new, Fazio's old but recently resoled, Ziva told him. Gibbs figured that was probably not related to the murder: Again, it would have been normal for sailors about to deploy to be sure they had a spare set in good condition. Each man also had a laptop computer, but Ziva said they were both password protected. She'd bring them back.

The only other item of interest, Ziva reported, was a cell phone she'd found in the trash bin outside. It was relatively new, with no apparent damage. There was no power cord in the trash with it, and the battery was dead, so it was impossible to tell why it had been thrown away. But in the back of her mind – and Gibbs' as she told him about it – was Ferrara's missing cell. Surely they wouldn't have been so stupid as to bring it home? She'd bring it back and they'd know for sure.

Gibbs asked her if she was satisfied with the help the Norfolk PD officers had given her during the search. Did she need them to come down to be sure the local LEOs hadn't missed anything? She said it was fine, that with so little in the house, they'd had plenty of opportunity to tear the place apart. She would seize the sea bags and everything but the furniture, and bring it back to D.C. Gibbs told her they were likely to be headed to Norfolk later in the day, and they'd be in touch.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

Goetz beat them back to the Yard. Gibbs hadn't called ahead to authorize Goetz's entry into the building, so he was waiting for them in the lobby. He had changed clothes too, into a dark blue suit and almost matching blue shirt, no tie, a charcoal overcoat on top. His braces were under the pants. The edges pushed up against the fabric in odd patterns below his knees, and there was no sign of the braces above his knees. Gibbs realized he must be wearing what he'd referred to as short braces. His suspicion was confirmed when Goetz stood, stepping forward without locking the joints. Goetz's gait was different with the use of his knees. It was more walk and less swing. More normal. Though he still had to use the arm crutches.

Goetz didn't seem upset by the wait, just impatient to get going. Gibbs checked him in and the three of them made their way upstairs to the squadroom. Gibbs squeezed in behind his desk, shrugged out of his jacket and lowered himself carefully into his chair, pointing Goetz to DiNozzo's chair. He leaned back so he could unholster his Sig from a seated position, and locked the weapon in his drawer. Goetz took off his own overcoat before sitting down.

On the otherwise empty surface of his desk was the report from the Anacostia Detention Center on Fazio's injuries, and a receipt for his boots, signed by the evidence clerk. Gibbs picked up the injury report. He reached for his glasses. They weren't in his pocket, nor on his desk. He thought back to when he'd last had them. Yesterday, when he went home to change before the sting. They were in his sport coat pocket. At home.

"Need these?" Goetz said from DiNozzo's desk. Gibbs looked up to see him holding out his own reading glasses and trying not to grin. With a sigh, Gibbs nodded at McGee, who quickly got up and delivered them. Gibbs held the glasses in front of his eyes. Not perfect, but not bad.

He scanned the report. Two hematomas on the back of his head, a one and a half inch burn mark on the inside of the left forearm, multiple abrasions on the insides of both upper arms, two partially-healed scratches on the right side of his neck near the trapezius muscle. The hematomas were Gibbs' fault. The abrasions could be explained by packing and moving in preparation for deployment. The burn mark might be from a flash bang detonating too close, or it might be something irrelevant. The scratches might be what he'd been looking for. He turned back to McGee.

"Abby said she left the DNA samples running last night. Go see if it's done."

"On it," McGee said. He hustled away.

Gibbs' phone rang on his desk. He put down the report and Goetz's glasses and snapped it up. "Gibbs."

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

A violent crash woke DiNozzo and he sat up fast, smashing his head on the ceiling of his rack.

"Damn, what the hell?" DiNozzo rubbed his head and rolled carefully out of bed. He was alone in the dark room, but light spilled through the connecting door to the office, which was ajar. He stumbled over to it and pushed through, rubbing his head. Fredrick was sitting at the table in the center of the office, reading. He was already dressed for the day. He looked up.

"About time you woke up," Fredrick said.

"What was that noise?" DiNozzo asked.

"They're loading heavy equipment," Fredrick said. "Some of it comes in hard."

DiNozzo took the other chair at the table. "How long've you been up?"

"Couple hours. I had an idea."

"Oh yeah?" DiNozzo said.

"This list of officers who've been here since 2003. I thought I might be able to shrink it some, so I've been eliminating the ones it couldn't be."

"What's your criteria?" DiNozzo asked.

"Couple of things. First I eliminated the females because of the nature of the motive. Then I removed all the most senior officers, on the theory that if it was them, there'd have been other attacks before these. I also eliminated any officer who sailed with us prior to 2003 on the same theory."

"Alright," DiNozzo said.

"I figured whoever's running this thing would have to be holding the reins pretty tight. With the way news spreads on this ship, and considering what Gibbs found out about how widely this thing was known after the fact, there couldn't have been a lot of lead time between identifying the target and the attack. It would have leaked. So if an officer was working off ship, say on TDY or a training detail, immediately before or on the day of any attack, chances are it wasn't him."

"Reasonable," DiNozzo said.

"Plus there's quite a few I can eliminate based on what I know of their personalities."

"How so?"

"Take Lt. Cmdr. Jorgenson, for instance. He's a good officer, but he doesn't have the brains to put something like this together. Lt. j.g. Norton gossips like an old woman. He couldn't keep a secret like this to save his life. And Lt. Porter. His brother is gay, and he's not particularly bothered by it. I can't see him spearheading something like this."

"How do you know that?" DiNozzo asked.

"I did his security background when he came aboard. He was assigned to an intelligence billet for the first time. The brother's orientation came up."

"What else?"

"I figure whoever it is has to be of a certain personality type. I went through the psych reports, eliminating any that came up too sanguine to bother."

"So what's left?"

"These ten," Fredrick said, and handed him the original list of officers, most of them crossed off. DiNozzo scanned the list. Two commanders, one lieutenant commander, four lieutenants, three lieutenants junior grade.

"What're their jobs?" DiNozzo asked.

Fredrick ran down the list. The eighth name made DiNozzo's gut scream.

"It's him," DiNozzo said, cutting him off.

"Father Thayer?" Fredrick asked incredulously. "Why do you say that?"

"The victims were all Catholic," DiNozzo said.

"So, so am I," Fredrick said.

"I know. And how often do you go to confession?"

"Not as often as I should. Once a month or so," Fredrick said, and the light dawned. "They were confessing their sexual desires. He's punishing them for their sin."

"Yes," DiNozzo said. He jumped up and reached for the phone on Fredrick's desk.

"He thinks he's doing God's work," Fredrick said, his voice suddenly introspective.

"Probably," DiNozzo said as he started to dial the Navy Yard. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten-hundred."

DiNozzo's eyes widened. Damn. He knew he'd been tired, but he didn't realize he'd slept that long. He hoped Gibbs hadn't been trying to reach him.

"Are you sure it's him?" Fredrick asked.

"Positive," DiNozzo said. "Well, almost positive."

Fredrick fell silent. DiNozzo could see the turmoil on his face, and for a second, thought about the betrayal Fredrick must be feeling. Not to mention he must be wondering what other secrets the priest might have told. The phone rang on the other end.

**xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox**

"It's the priest," DiNozzo said when Gibbs picked up.

"Well yeah, DiNozzo, it is," Gibbs said.

"You knew?" DiNozzo asked, surprise clear in his voice.

"You're about an hour behind us. We're making plans now to get down there and talk to him."

"How're you going to get around the privilege?" DiNozzo asked.

"It's covered. Watch him today. If he rabbits, stay with him."

"Got it." DiNozzo paused. "He might have been spilling other secrets, too."

"Time will tell," Gibbs said.

"Could be something worse," DiNozzo said.

"I know."

"Every Catholic sailor and Marine who's been on this ship for the past six years could be at risk," DiNozzo said.

"I know," Gibbs repeated.

"Do you know who else was involved in Ferrara?" DiNozzo said.

"One of them was probably a Religious Programs Specialist named Lewiston, Fazio's roommate. Pretty sure he's the one Ziva shot last night."

"He turn up dead yet?" DiNozzo asked.

"Not yet. McGee tracked him as far as Ashton, headed back your way. The deck officer's supposed to call us if he shows up. The third is still an unknown. You got anything on that?"

"We're working on a list of his known associates. As soon as you've got the priest out of the way, we can start interviewing them. Wouldn't want one of them to tip him off before you get here."

"Yeah, alright. I'll let you know." Gibbs hung up.

"Is Lewiston okay?" Goetz asked from Tony's desk.

Gibbs shrugged. "Don't know. He took a bullet. It was aimed at his legs, and we know he drove at least as far as Ashton, so it's not likely life-threatening. You know him?"

"Yeah, I do," Goetz said. "And I know that if the wound's not to serious and he's got the right supplies, he'll probably manage it himself just fine."

Gibbs frowned at him, and Goetz explained. "He was an FMF Corpsman for years. I helped train him."

"Nicky saw Marines," Gibbs said to himself. The Marine Corps didn't have its own medical staff. It depended on Navy personnel. Fleet Marine Force medics were specially trained to deploy with Marine units on frontline missions. They were the highest qualified of the Navy's battlefield medics, and were almost universally accepted by Marine units as one of their own. They trained together, were housed together, and wore the same uniforms. That's why Nicky kept saying the men in the warehouse were Marines, and why he didn't recognize Fazio. Because the two he got a good look at looked like Marines. That also explained the barely-there haircut on the other man at the warehouse last night. After so many years with the Marines, it would have been second nature to him. Fazio was a ship medic, and wouldn't have had the Marine look.

Gibbs snatched up the phone and called Tony's cell back. Voicemail.

"Damn it!" Gibbs said. "What's the main number on the Big Stick?" Gibbs asked Goetz. He rattled it off.

"Why did he switch careers?" Gibbs asked as he started to dial.

"PTSD," Goetz answered, and Gibbs paused mid-dial. Goetz went on. "He'd been working with the same Marine unit for a couple years. Got real close to them. While we were on station in the Gulf the last time, he lost half his squad in an IED attack. All the survivors were wounded in some manner. Lewiston was on his own the first half hour, trying to save as many as he could and tend to his own injuries at the same time. It was a really ugly scene. The next few times he prepared for a mission, he had paralyzing panic attacks and ended up in the infirmary. He developed debilitating migraines. He was transferred stateside, but he didn't get any better. Six months after the incident, despite counsel from both the medical and clerical staffs, he was still no better, so he decided to switch ratings. Voluntarily dropped a rank, went back to A-School to become an RP."

"So he'd still have Marine uniforms," Gibbs said. He finished dialing and went through the process of getting connected to the NCIS office on board. He filled DiNozzo in on what he'd just discovered and told him to check Lewiston's crewmates. Chances were the third man was either a friend from his old unit, or another RP or Corpsman wearing Marine fatigues.

"So how do you find him?" Goetz asked when Gibbs hung up.

"He'll show up," Gibbs said.

"Just like that?" Goetz asked.

"He'll either report for duty in a few hours, or he'll run. He's using his debit card, so he's certainly not any good at running. His partner tried to hide his ID, but we knew who Lewiston was five minutes after we went into the partner's house. Not exactly master criminals, either of them."

"Lewiston is smart, or was," Goetz said. "Really sharp, before. He was an incredible medic."

"And now he's a murderer," Gibbs said. Goetz shook his head.

"I can't believe that. He was a good kid."

Gibbs decided to read him in. "One of the DNA samples from your attack matched the one we took from Ferrara's body."

Goetz stared at him, blinked. "Lewiston?" he asked.

"We don't know yet. There were three samples from your attack, and three guys at Ferrara's, but only one match. It might be another corpsman we arrested last night, Michael Fazio. You know him?"

Goetz thought about it. "The name rings a bell, but... no."

Gibbs shrugged. "Might be the third guy."

Goetz fell silent, staring down at the empty surface of DiNozzo's desk. McGee reappeared, hands empty. "Not back yet, Boss," he reported.

Gibbs nodded, but said nothing. He was watching Goetz. The Master Chief had taken the news well, but he figured the reaction would come. On the other hand, Goetz had been a medical first responder in three wars. He certainly knew how to keep it together.

"So, you gonna get me aboard, or what?" Goetz asked, and Gibbs gave a small nod of satisfaction.

"Let me make a call," Gibbs said.

* * *

to be continued...

Things are happenin' now. Thanks to all those who've reviewed. I appreciate it more than you know. If you're reading and haven't kicked in your two cents, why not give it a try? I promise not to take away points for spelling and grammar. :o)


	32. Part 30

**One Less - Part 30**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

The set up was easy. Capt. McNally was pleased to hear they had a solid suspect, though Gibbs had declined to tell him who it was. When Gibbs told him they could have the head of the conspiracy off his ship by day's end – if McNally would approve a civilian walk-on – the Captain had been more than happy to comply. Gibbs didn't name Goetz as the civilian he was bringing aboard. Though the Captain had been made aware of all 12 of the known victims of this conspiracy, Gibbs had not explicitly stated the motive for the attacks. The Captain would probably figure it out if he hadn't already. Nonetheless, Gibbs would continue to try and protect the victims' privacy as long as possible.

When Gibbs told McNally it would take them at least three hours to make the drive to Norfolk, the Captain had offered to send a helicopter for them. Gibbs had initially objected. Surely the pilots in the Big Stick's air wing had higher priorities on this day before shove off. McNally had countered by saying there was no higher priority in his mind than ridding his ship of sailors who were a danger to his men. Gibbs thanked him and agreed they would meet the helicopter at Anacostia in an hour.

"When did Abby say she'd be in?" Gibbs asked McGee.

"Late," McGee said. Gibbs glanced at his watch. It was almost 10:30.

"What time did she leave the message for you?"

"A little past three," McGee said. "She said to call if you needed her."

"Call her. I need her." McGee nodded and started dialing.

Ducky came into the squad room from the back, holding a cardboard carrier laden with coffee cups.

"Good morning, Jethro," Ducky said brightly as he came around the corner. "I heard you were here. I suspect you're going to need delivery service for the next little while, so I took the liberty." Ducky handed Gibbs a large cup.

"You're a saint, Duck," Gibbs said as he took a sip.

"For Agent McGee," Ducky said and handed one to the younger agent, who was still on the phone. "And for the gentleman," Ducky said, moving to DiNozzo's desk.

"Ian Goetz," Goetz supplied as Ducky handed him the cup.

"Pleasure to meet you, Master Chief."

Goetz looked surprised that the doctor knew his former rank, and glanced down at himself as if to confirm he wasn't wearing a uniform. Ducky took the last cup and introduced himself.

"Dr. Donald Mallard, medical examiner. But don't let that bother you. Call me Ducky. Everyone does."

"Have we met before, Ducky?" Goetz asked.

"You have something else for me, or just the coffee?" Gibbs asked Ducky before the doctor could get into a discussion of how exactly he knew Goetz's rank.

"Actually, I do. Major Ortiz's remains arrived this morning."

"You found him?" Goetz asked.

"Indeed I did," Ducky said to Goetz, then turned back to Gibbs. "The paperwork is all in order, and the remains are now yours to do with as you see fit."

Gibbs nodded. "Good."

"What are you going to do with him?" Goetz asked. Before Gibbs could answer, Ducky continued.

"If you'd like, I can make some arrangements," Ducky said.

"Arlington?" Gibbs asked.

"I'll see what I can do," Ducky said. Gibbs nodded his thanks.

When Ducky left, Goetz spoke again. "How'd you manage that?"

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"Getting Major Ortiz's remains?"

"Dr. Mallard's skills are wide and varied," Gibbs said. He put the coffee down.

"Abby'll be in in half an hour," McGee reported from his desk as he hung up.

Gibbs nodded. "I need a wire. Recording and broadcast."

"For the Roosevelt?" McGee asked. When Gibbs nodded, McGee continued. "I don't think we're going to be able to broadcast. Not with the equipment we have here. The chapel is too deep in the ship. There'll be too much interference. If you want broadcast, we'll have to special order something from tech services."

He was probably right, Gibbs knew, but that created a complication. He wasn't going to be able to interact with Goetz while he talked to the priest. It would be out of his hands.

"Bring up what we've got." McGee nodded and headed back downstairs, coffee in hand.

"So how're you planning to handle it, Master Chief?" Gibbs asked Goetz when McGee was gone.

"Father Thayer?" Goetz asked. Gibbs nodded.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned?" Goetz said.

"And after that?"

"I suppose I'll tell him what he wants to hear. Ask him for penance. He'll probably tell me I've already paid. If not, I'll push him that way. 'Do you think this was my punishment?' He'll spill."

"We're going to have to use the whole tape, whatever you get," Gibbs cautioned. "No editing out what you don't want people to hear."

Goetz sipped at his coffee, then let out a long breath. "It's going to become public."

"Probably. Eventually. Does your family know?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes."

"You're gonna wanna warn Lt. Cmdr. McDougall."

Goetz huffed. "Already did. After you came to visit."

"He still in the Navy?" Gibbs asked.

"Commander, assigned to NAS Lemoore in California. Five months to retirement. He filed his papers last month."

"They gonna let him go?" Gibbs knew the Navy was hard-pressed for talent, and was only approving the release of officers on a case-by-case basis.

"He's already overdue. He got his 20 more than a year ago. He was trying to get me to leave with him. That's what we were having trouble with, why I started talking to Thayer."

"So what's he gonna do? If it goes public?" Gibbs clarified.

Goetz shrugged. "Hope for the best. No one really knew about us. We..." Goetz glanced around the busy squadroom to see if anyone was in earshot. Seeing no one, he lowered his voice a little anyway and continued. "We broke up to protect him. But it was more about not being connected in the aftermath than a fear that anyone would find out about before. We were very careful. As officer and enlisted, we couldn't really even be friends under the UCMJ, so the other thing was just another thing to hide."

"Did you give his name to Thayer?" Gibbs asked.

"God no," Goetz said. "I only told him my secrets."

Gibbs drank more coffee. "You gonna keep talking to him?"

"Bill?" Gibbs nodded. Goetz gave a small smile over his coffee. "Maybe. When he's fully separated. If it doesn't come out before then. His service has been his life. If it gets out before he can retire, if they DD him because of this..." Goetz trailed off. "There won't be any chance."

"If his papers are already in, and he's got his 20, they'll likely just let him go, even if it does come out. But we'll do our best," Gibbs said.

Goetz nodded. "I know. And I appreciate it."

McGee came back up with a digital micro recorder a little larger than a pack of gum, a roll of white tape, and a handful of wires.

"We can go basic. Chest mike, recorder in his pants," McGee said. He set the equipment on Gibbs' desk.

"Will it make noise?" Gibbs asked, examining the recorder.

"No," McGee said. "It's silent running, once it's turned on. It might make a clicking noise in voice activation mode, but the batteries will go at least four hours in continuous run mode."

"That'll work," Gibbs said.

McGee turned to Goetz. "You can turn it on before you board, then let it run. Just be aware it's recording everything you say, so be careful," McGee cautioned. Goetz nodded, a small smile showing at the nearly identical warnings from the two agents.

Gibbs drained his cup and dropped it into the trash.

"Alright, let's go, Master Chief." Gibbs retrieved his weapon and jacket, stashing the recording equipment in his jacket pocket. He used the edge of his desk to get upright, then stood on his good leg to grab the crutches. He looked up to see McGee gathering his gear.

"Where you going, McGee?" Gibbs asked. McGee froze, then turned to face him.

"With you, Boss," McGee said, as if Gibbs had asked him something obvious.

"I need you here. Tell Abby to call me with the DNA results, and compare Fazio's boots to the prints we have from the warehouse. When Ziva gets back, both of you help Abby with the evidence. I need to know as soon as you find something."

McGee stood, staring, as Gibbs hobbled out from behind his desk and Goetz swung himself upright to join Gibbs in the aisle.

"Uh, are you sure, Boss? I mean, uh, how're you going to get there?"

"Do I look unsure?" Gibbs asked with a small growl. "I expect to hear from you as soon as Abby gets something."

"Got it," McGee said, and settled back into his chair. Goetz grabbed his glasses off Gibbs' desk, then the two men moved slowly to the elevators. After Gibbs pushed the button, he turned to Goetz.

"You did drive here, right?" he asked.

Goetz smiled. "Yup."

* * *

to be continued...

No reason for the delay. I just didn't get it done. But this is one of three for tonight. So enjoy. And if you enjoy, please leave some feedback. I treasure every comment.


	33. Part 31

*****If you're reading as the story's in progress, be sure this is the second part you've read tonight. Don't want anyone to miss anything.*****

* * *

**One Less - Part 31**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

The car Goetz lead them to was a battleship gray Chrysler PT Cruiser.

"Nice color," Gibbs said as he waited for Goetz to let him in the passenger side.

Goetz smiled. "I thought it was appropriate. You can throw the crutches in the back." He clicked the auto locks and Gibbs opened the rear door. He laid the crutches across the back seat, slammed the door, and hopped up to climb in the front. He could feel an ache in his knee that told him it was probably time to take a pill, but it could wait. Goetz sat sideways in his seat, then slid his own crutches over his shoulder to rest upright behind him. He lifted his legs into the car and got settled, then turned to look at Gibbs, who had done virtually the same thing.

"Not as easy as a year ago," Goetz said. "But better than six months ago."

Gibbs nodded. He noticed immediately that the car was outfitted with hand controls. Of course Goetz wouldn't be able to drive with his legs. He'd figured it was something like that.

"Navy paid for the driving rig," Goetz said casually as he started the car. "The car, too. There are some benefits to retiring on a full scholarship plus disability."

Gibbs nodded. Getting to 20 years was the goal of every career military man. It meant a tax-free pension based on retirement rank, medical care for life, and various other perks that almost made retiring worthwhile. Goetz had received full retirement benefits despite being two years short because his injuries were considered line of duty. Gibbs himself had received disability benefits for several years after his injury. By the time the benefits ran out, he'd been well-ensconced at NCIS and didn't need it anymore. The Navy took care of its own, until it didn't have to anymore.

The drive wasn't long, only a couple miles across the river. Like Andrews, Naval Support Facility Anacostia was very high security. This time, it was the President's Helicopter Squadron HMX-1 – better known as Marine One – that made it so. Gibbs showed his credentials at the gate, and Goetz provided his retired military ID, and they were asked to state their business. When they had, the guard directed them to the correct helicopter pad. Nowhere near the one the President's birds used, they knew.

When they arrived where they'd been directed, Gibbs had to double check the location. The aircraft sitting on the pad wasn't Navy or Marine. It was an Army Blackhawk, the workhorse of the Iraq and Afghanistan war efforts, and way more helicopter than necessary to transport them. The nose of the aircraft was to their right, the sliding door on that side open. A man in a Marine flight suit and fur-lined flight jacket was sitting in the doorway, eating a sandwich and drinking from a large plastic travel mug. He watched them get out of the car, and observed them with a bland expression as they approached. He put his sandwich down and dusted his hands on his flight suit before standing to greet them.

"One of you Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs?" he asked.

"Retired. But that'd be me," Gibbs said. He braced the right crutch between his body and his arm and offered a hand.

"Major Tom Aziz, Third Company, First Marines." He shook, then turned to Goetz.

"Ian Goetz," Goetz introduced himself and shook hands, again leaving off his former rank. Gibbs wondered why he was doing that, but let it lie.

"What are you flying this bucket for?" Gibbs asked. It was very unusual for a Marine pilot to be flying Army aircraft. It was a matter of Corps pride. The pilot smiled.

"TR's bringing half a dozen of them over to Camp Victory on this cruise. I'm one of the few in my squadron not certified to fly it, and my CO has decided I need to learn. When this milk run came up, he decided it was a good time for some practice."

"You're not certified?" Gibbs asked. A female voice from inside the helicopter spoke up.

"Don't let it worry you, Gunny, he's got the skill." The other pilot leaned back around her seat so they could see her through the side door. "And besides, I've got a steady hand on the stick."

"That'd be Major Carla Mallick," Aziz said, gesturing to her. "She is certified. I understand we're to take you to the Roosevelt, best speed."

"Affirmative," Gibbs replied.

"You guys must be important. They've cleared us a space on the flight deck."

"Not important. Just need to be there, and we're not exactly up to making the drive. But we'd like to make a little less of a splash. Can you put us down off ship, but somewhere close?" Gibbs asked.

Aziz considered. "I suppose we can. How unobtrusive do you want to be?"

"How unobtrusive can you be?"

"We can put you down at one of the hangars on the other side of the station. It'll be a few miles from the ship, and just another rotor craft coming in. No one will pay any attention."

"That'd be fine. We're trying to keep this trip under the radar." If Goetz arrived on a military transport, landing on the flight deck, tongues were going to start wagging. Especially if he arrived with an NCIS agent. Better that it just be a casual drive up and walk on. DiNozzo had driven to Norfolk. He could pick them up wherever the pilot dropped them, and Goetz could go aboard alone.

"Understood," the Major said.

"What's your flight time?" Gibbs asked.

"It's 116 nautical miles, we cruise at 150 knots. Wind was behind us on the way here, so it'll take a little longer back," Aziz said. "So, about 45 minutes, give or take."

"You couldn't have just said that?" Major Mallick called from the cockpit.

"Gotta at least sound like I know what I'm doing," Aziz called back.

"Oh, yeah, that oughta help," Mallick said.

"I'll need to make a call before we take off, arrange for a pick up," Gibbs said, interrupting them. The banter was familiar, almost comforting, but he didn't have time for it.

"Fair enough. Either of you gonna need a hand boarding?"

"Maybe," Gibbs admitted.

"Alright, stand by one." The pilot picked up the remains of his lunch and wrapped it up, pulling open the right-hand cab door to stash it and his coffee mug.

Without waiting, Goetz sided up to the open door. He turned so his back was to it, sat on the edge of the door, and swung his legs up and around so he was sitting on the chopper's floor. With both crutches in one hand, Goetz shuffled on his butt across the floor to the front row seat furthest from the door, then reached up, used the seat harness as a trapeze, and swung himself up into the seat. Gibbs was frankly impressed.

"Nicely done," Major Aziz said from where he'd been watching.

"Not so hard, when you're used to it," Goetz replied. He bent over and picked up the crutches, stuffing them down between his seat and the helicopter's wall.

"Your turn," Aziz said to Gibbs.

Gibbs also sat on the edge of the door, but not being used to it, he handed the Major the crutches. He lifted his bad leg up into the helicopter, then bent the other knee so his foot was on the floor of the chopper, grabbed at the harness on the nearest seat, and stood shakily on his good leg. With a few short hops, he fell into the seat one down from Goetz.

"I'd give it a seven," Aziz said. Gibbs gave him a look.

"You lost a couple of style points on the landing," Aziz added. He stowed the crutches on the floor between the rows of seats as Gibbs fastened his harness.

"All in?" he asked. When both men nodded, he took a quick glance at their harnesses to be sure they were secure, then handed them helmets equipped with radio headsets and microphones. The helmets were protocol, the radios a bonus. Gibbs accepted his, but didn't put it on. Instead, he pulled out his cell and dialed DiNozzo as Aziz slid the door shut and climbed into his seat in the cockpit. DiNozzo actually answered this time. A short conversation later and Gibbs hung up, pulled on his helmet, and signaled the pilots that he was ready.

The two pilots quickly ran down the pre-flight checklist, Aziz talking through it aloud, his voice confident. When Mallick agreed he'd done it right, they powered up the helicopter. Within minutes, the rotor blades were turning full power. Through the radio in his helmet, Gibbs heard Mallick check in with the control tower. Half a minute after that, they got takeoff clearance. There was the familiar feeling of being pressed back into his seat, followed by a sense of unstable weightlessness as the helo lifted a few inches off the ground. It hovered, rose a few more feet and hovered again as Aziz got comfortable with the weight the two men added to what had been an empty bird on the way here. Satisfied, he let the helicopter auto-rotate 180 degrees, pulled on the stick, and they were away.

Gibbs was a comfortable flier. As soon as the helo was in stable flight – and he was confident Aziz knew enough about what he was doing that they weren't likely to crash into the Virginia countryside – he felt himself starting to drift. The muffled sound of the rotors cutting the air and the vibration of the hull lulled him almost immediately into that place between wake and sleep where his mind was able to relax.

He could not have guessed how much time passed when he suddenly became aware of a murmur in his ears. Gibbs opened his eyes and glanced at the backs of the pilots. They were talking, he could see in the occasional sideways glances they gave each other and the movements of their heads. But they were talking to each other, not to him. The internal intercom was set up so that conversation between the pilots was restricted to their own headsets. If they wanted conversations between them to go to the passengers, they had to flip a switch. Similarly, the conversations between passengers stayed in the back, unless the pilots chose otherwise.

So if it wasn't the pilots... Gibbs turned to glance at his seatmate. Goetz was leaning against the side of the helicopter with his eyes closed, his lips moving slightly, working something through his fingers. As soon as Gibbs realized what he was holding, the murmurs became words. Goetz was reciting the Rosary.

Gibbs tuned him out. He couldn't understand the attraction of Catholicism. Too many rules, too much structure. He liked a little more freedom in his religion. Gibbs supposed his biggest complaint about it was the wall the religion put up between man and God. When he had something to say to God, he said it. He didn't need a priest to talk to God for him. And he certainly didn't need to be confessing his sins to any man. Ordained by God or not.

Still, Gibbs knew that for those who truly embraced it, the Catholic religion was central to their lives. As important to them as the Marine Corps had been – and still was – to Gibbs. But there had never been anyone in his chain of command he would have trusted with secrets as big as the one these men had shared with the priest. He'd known few people in his life who'd earned that level of trust from him. Certainly no one he knew now, though his old mentor Mike Franks came pretty damn close. And he supposed DiNozzo was getting there. Still, he couldn't imagine sitting down with either of them and pouring out his heart. He couldn't imagine pouring his heart out to anyone. At least not without a great deal of alcohol on board.

There had been times in the past when people Gibbs trusted had betrayed him. He knew that pain. But never to the level of what the priest had done to Goetz and the other men. He took a minute to try and imagine how he would feel if it had been him. He usually tried to avoid that kind of introspection. But given what Goetz was about to do, Gibbs figured he owed it to him to at least think about it.

The murmuring in his headphones stuttered, then stopped, and Gibbs looked back at Goetz. The Master Chief had his eyes open and was looking over at him with an intense look on his face.

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"Are they tuned in?" Goetz gestured to the pilots.

"Majors?" Gibbs called through his headset. There was no change in the position of either pilot. "Nope."

"What if I can't get him to say it?" Goetz asked.

"Then we'll get him another way," Gibbs said.

"That simple?" Goetz asked.

"Sometimes," Gibbs shrugged. "Sometimes it's hard. We've ID'd him. That's the hardest part, usually."

"What about the rest of them?" Goetz asked.

"We'll get them, too. It's just gonna take some time."

"Which you don't have a lot of," Goetz said.

"Some of them aren't on the Big Stick anymore. They're not going anywhere. There's no rush to get to them."

"The statute of limitations on Hutchinson has almost run," Goetz reminded him.

"We've still got a month," Gibbs responded. "It won't take that long."

Goetz fell silent. He was still fingering the rosary beads in his hands.

"I'm not sure about this," Goetz said after awhile.

"Second thoughts?" Gibbs asked.

"No. And yes." Goetz took a breath. "It's not smart, you know, to be messing around with eternity."

Gibbs looked at him, curious.

"What I'm going to do, help put a priest in prison. It's probably not on the list of things a good Catholic is supposed to do."

"Neither's conspiracy to commit murder," Gibbs said.

"I know. I know he's got to be stopped, and I know this is the best way to do it. But I'm not sure what it's going to do to me. There are consequences, even to doing the right thing. Eternal consequences. I'm just trying to align what I know is right with what my beliefs require of me."

Gibbs wasn't sure what to say about that.

"You're a faithful man with strong morals," he said finally. "You know what's right. How can you believe something is moral if it keeps you from doing what's right?"

"There's more than one level of right. A priest can't turn in a confessed criminal, even though it would be the right thing to do by society's standards. He can't marry a couple who are clearly in love, who deserve to be married, if one of them isn't Catholic. Catholics have children they can't afford to feed, because using birth control is a sin." Goetz paused, sighed. "There are restrictions my beliefs impose that go against societal expectations. This feels an awful lot like one of those."

"So you'd just let him go on hurting people, destroying lives, because your religion makes him untouchable?"

"Of course not," Goetz said with a touch of impatience. "But he's been a man of God, ministering to those in need, for his entire adult life. What he's done is wrong, but doesn't he deserve a chance to repent? To see the sin he's committing and change it?"

"He deserves the same chance at rehabilitation that every felon gets: In prison" Gibbs said. "Saying he's sorry isn't enough, even if he actually is. The system demands justice, and retribution. He has to pay for his crimes. Even the Bible says that."

"The Bible says vengeance belongs to the Lord, not to man," Goetz countered. "What right do I have to seek vengeance for what he's done to me? To us?"

"Is that why you're doing this? To get back at him?"

Goetz didn't answer right away. He let his Rosary fall into one hand and closed his fist around it.

"I want to. I really want to punish him for what he's done."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Gibbs said. "It's what we do. It's why we have a Navy."

"No, it's not," Goetz argued. "We have a Navy to protect our country and our citizens from those who would do us harm."

"Which is exactly what you're going to do by helping us arrest this priest."

Goetz fell silent again.

"It feels wrong," Goetz said after a minute. "I've spent my career saving lives and reducing the impact of injuries. Putting this man away will do that, too. But what if God doesn't see it that way? What if by doing this thing that feels right in this moment, I'm condemning myself in eternity?"

Gibbs didn't answer right away. He was no expert in theology. He wanted to just tell Goetz to do the right thing now and worry about later, later. But the Master Chief was right about one thing: What he did here was going to stay with him forever. However long that might be.

"I can't tell you what to do. I can only tell you that you're in a unique position to help us take down a man who has betrayed everything he, and you, believe in. Who has perverted his oath to God and used his ministry to destroy lives. If you decide you can't do it, we'll get him another way. It'll take longer, but we'll get him. Having your help could make it happen today. It is the right thing to do. As for your eternal soul, that's way above my pay grade."

Gibbs paused a moment before continuing. "I can also tell you this: The God I pray to would not want your fear of Him to keep you from doing what you know is right."

Goetz considered him, then nodded once. He leaned against the bulkhead and closed his eyes again. He did not resume his prayers.

When the helo's attitude changed twenty minutes later, Gibbs had just begun to drift away again. His mind had been working on 'Plan B': What they were going to do if Goetz decided not to go through with it. There was a clicking sound in his ears signaling an open channel and Major Mallick's voice came over the radio.

"Time to wake up, gentlemen," she said. "We'll be landing in a few minutes."

"Copy that," Gibbs said. Beside him, Goetz sat up straight in his seat and stuffed his Rosary in his pants pocket. The helicopter began to lose altitude. Gibbs looked out the windows and saw they were cruising maybe two thousand feet above the James River, headed south toward Newport News. He watched as they passed over a highway bridge and continued to descend. A sweeping left turn, another bridge, and they were looking straight at Naval Station Norfolk.

Only about half of the Station's 14 piers were occupied. The Roosevelt was easy to spot. She was the only carrier on station and the largest thing in the water. He idly picked out each of the other ships in TR's carrier strike group. Even the submarine USS Albuquerque was present, her upper hull looking like an oil slick in the water, her sail and rudder poking up through it.

Maj. Aziz called in to air traffic control and got his approach vector. Air traffic in the area had to be coordinated between military bases, small public and private airports, and Norfolk International. Threading a small aircraft through it was tricky business. In response to the tower's instruction, Aziz made a 90 degree right turn over the Craney Island Naval Reserve and looped a wide, descending, counterclockwise circle over the land toward the airfield at the opposite side of the station. The hangars got bigger in the windows, the helo began to power back, and the ground rushed up at them. The approach felt fast to Gibbs, and he braced himself for a hard landing. But at the last second, the big bird pulled up slightly and seemed to float weightless for a moment. Then its wheels touched the ground with a bump so slight, Gibbs wasn't sure they were actually down. It wasn't until a second later when the pitch of the rotors began to drop that he was certain.

"Nicely done," Gibbs said into his radio.

"I told you, he's got the skill," Maj. Mallick said with a smile clear in her voice. She reached up to cut the engines and the rotors ground to a halt.

Getting out of the aircraft was easier: Gravity was on his side. With only a few grunts and a slight slip, Gibbs had both feet on the ground. He leaned heavily on the crutches, a tightening and tingling in his knee reminding him that standing on that leg wasn't a good idea. With both his legs the same length, it wasn't easy to keep his weight off the right side. Shifting his left leg back a little helped. When he was in the best position he could manage, he got out of Goetz's way and looked up as Maj. Mallick came around the aircraft.

Turns out the Major was a pixie-like redhead that made Gibbs stop for a second look. Redheads had always been his weakness. This one, though, was almost young enough to be his daughter.

"They're getting younger every year," Goetz said quietly next to him. Gibbs turned sharply to look at him. He hadn't thought his second look was that obvious. But the look on Goetz's face told him it hadn't been that: The Master Chief was merely making a comment on her apparent age.

"I'm not as young as I look," Mallick grinned. "Good genes. Here." She held out a page torn from a small notebook. "Call me when you're ready to go home. Captain's got us at your service for the rest of the day. We'll be up there somewhere, running up Aziz's air miles."

"Appreciate it," Gibbs said as he took it. He slipped the phone number into his pocket then called DiNozzo to give him their location. Less than 10 minutes later, the sedan DiNozzo had used to get to Norfolk arrived. With a final wave of thanks to the pilots, Gibbs and Goetz went to the car and got in. Gibbs introduced Goetz to DiNozzo.

"So what's the plan, Boss?" DiNozzo asked as he pulled away from the helicopter pad. His eyes had widened slightly at the sight of the crutches and the bandage standing out starkly against Gibbs' neck, but he wisely didn't ask. McGee had told him Ziva had accidentally injured Gibbs, but he obviously hadn't told the whole story. DiNozzo would get the details out of McHoldout later.

Gibbs turned in his seat to look back at Goetz. There was a moment while the two men stared at each other, then Goetz took a breath and nodded firmly.

"Master Chief Goetz is going to go visit some old friends," Gibbs said. "You and I are going to figure out who went with Fazio to kill Ferrara."

"Visit old friends?" DiNozzo parroted back. He didn't get it, but he'd learned over the years that if he paid attention, the meaning of the things Gibbs said would often reveal themselves.

"Pull in somewhere," Gibbs said, and DiNozzo found a spot next to one of the hundreds of buildings that dotted the station.

"Take this," Gibbs said, and removed the recorder, wires and tape from his overcoat pocket. He held it out to DiNozzo.

"Wire him." DiNozzo took the equipment, then got out and moved to the empty rear passenger seat. Goetz turned in his seat to face him and unbuttoned his shirt to give DiNozzo access. DiNozzo rubbed his hands rapidly on his pants to warm them a little, then placed the tiny microphone against Goetz's chest, just below his breast bone. He taped it in place with the skin tape, then ran the wire down Goetz's chest to his waist, taping it every couple of inches. DiNozzo plugged in the mike and turned the recorder on. He held it in his lap.

"What we have here, is a failure to communicate," DiNozzo said, his voice reminiscent of the actor who said it first. Gibbs looked back over his shoulder at him, and Tony shrugged. He stopped the recorder, rewound, and listened to the playback. It was good.

"Are you left or right handed?" DiNozzo asked.

"Right," Goetz said.

"Alright, I need to get in your pants." Goetz's eyes widened, and DiNozzo gave an embarrassed laugh.

"On your own time, DiNozzo, not mine," Gibbs said from the front, which made Goetz laugh out loud. DiNozzo turned pink and cleared his throat.

"The recorder, it needs to go..." DiNozzo took a breath and decided the best part of valor was to run with it. "C'mon, sailor, drop your pants," he said with the best smile he could muster under the circumstances.

"Why Agent DiNozzo, I never would have guessed," Goetz said.

"Thanks," DiNozzo said honestly. Goetz grinned and undid his belt, lowering his zipper to expose blue and white striped boxers. Without further comment, DiNozzo clipped the small recorder under the waistband of Goetz's underwear just ahead of his left hip. He looped the excess wire and taped it to Goetz's belly above the recorder.

"That should do it. It's okay to take off your overcoat, but keep your jacket on if you can, it'll make the bulge less noticeable. And no dropping your pants."

"Got it," Goetz said.

"I'm turning it on now. Anything you want to say before we go on the record?"

"How's this going to work?" Goetz asked Gibbs.

"DiNozzo's going to drive us shipside. I'll stay here while you go aboard. No connection between our arrivals, and no one's likely to start talking. The OD is expecting you. He'll give you a no-restrictions walk on. You do your thing, talk to your people. When you're done, come to the NCIS office. We'll be there."

Goetz thought that through, then nodded. "Alright, I'm ready," he said, despite the hesitation still clear on his face.

DiNozzo nodded and pushed the record button. The red light came on. He silently indicated Goetz should do up his pants. When it was done, DiNozzo recited his name, the date, their soon to be location aboard the USS Roosevelt, and the fact that the recording was related to the homicide of Petty Officer Francis Ferrara. He had Goetz identify himself for a voice sample, then had Gibbs do the same as a witness. Satisfied, DiNozzo returned to the driver's seat and drove them to the parking area adjacent to the pier where the Roosevelt was docked.

"Good luck," DiNozzo said as Goetz climbed out of the car. Goetz snapped the cuffs of his crutches onto his forearms and seemed to gather himself for a moment before setting off across the parking area toward the gate to the pier. He walked slowly, placing the braces carefully before swinging forward. The parking area had been plowed, but ice was always possible. Gibbs made a mental note to do the same himself. The agents watched as he approached, then cleared, the pier checkpoint. With a nod to himself, and a silent word of encouragement, Gibbs called Abby.

"I've got good news and better news," Abby said when they were connected. "Which do you want first?"

"Dealer's choice," Gibbs said.

"There were two sets of boot prints from the night Petty Officer Ferrara died. Two from when they came back for Nicky. They're actually three different boots. The smaller set is the one common to both nights, and it's the one with the tread wear. I couldn't testify in court to an exclusive match, but I'm telling you they're the same as the boots Fazio was wearing this morning."

"Was that the good or the better?" Gibbs said with satisfaction. One down, two to go.

"That was the better. The good is the DNA. The blood drops from the warehouse last night match the sample I got from Ferrara's body, and there's a cross-match on that to one of the three samples from the attack on Master Chief Goetz. The samples from the baseball cap don't match those or anything else we have. And there's no match for any of it in the offender database."

So, it was looking more like Lewiston had been involved in Goetz's attack. Good for them, bad for the Master Chief. Gibbs wasn't looking forward to sharing that information.

"Ziva's inbound from Norfolk with some more samples. Shouldn't be long. Some of them should match, then we'll know.

"I'll be waiting for her," Abby said. Gibbs hung up and turned to DiNozzo.

"Let's go," he said.

* * *

to be continued...

Two of three for tonight. Hope you're enjoying... and feedbacking...


	34. Part 32

*****If you're reading this as the story's posted, be sure this is the THIRD part you're reading tonight. Don't want anyone to miss anything.*****

**

* * *

**

**One Less - Part 32**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

In the NCIS office aboard the Roosevelt, the feeling was one of stiff discomfort. Three men in the small office made it crowded, and for some reason the ship's heater was blowing full steam, making it almost unbearably hot in the room despite the winter temperature outside. Fredrick had duct-taped a file folder over the vent. It cut some of the incoming heat but did nothing to decrease the heat already there. Opening the door would have helped, but Gibbs had nixed that idea. He didn't want the presence of three agents on the ship to become too widely known if he could help it. A small fan in the corner did little but blow around the overheated, stale air.

Then there was the emotional undercurrent. Gibbs had said little to Agent Fredrick since they'd arrived. As soon as Gibbs walked through the door, Fredrick had apologized, taking full responsibility for both the delay in reporting Ferrara missing, and for not catching the string of connected attacks. Gibbs had nodded his acceptance of Fredrick's apology, but had done nothing to indicate forgiveness. DiNozzo knew it wasn't Gibbs' style. But he'd expected his boss to at least bring Fredrick into the investigation. Instead, Gibbs had done most of his interacting with DiNozzo, sparing few words for the Agent Afloat.

For Gibbs' part, he just wasn't in the mood for it. He supposed Fredrick's explanations made sense, on both fronts. He wasn't sure he'd have made the connection between the attacks himself without the extra information they had. And if Ferrara had been showing signs of dissatisfaction with his life as Fredrick had said, Gibbs might have waited, too. Might have. But Gibbs wasn't going to coddle him. It just wasn't his style. Fredrick would have to come to terms with his role in this thing on his own time.

Based on the information Abby had given them, Fazio's lame attempt at hiding his partner's identity, Lewiston's failure so far to report aboard, and his own gut, Gibbs was virtually certain that Lewiston was their second dirtbag. DiNozzo and Fredrick had come up with a list of sixteen sailors and Marines most likely to have been the third man, based on known association with Fazio and Lewiston, and their lack of Navy alibi. The two men were seated at the small table, reading SRBs and talking in low tones, trying to cut the number down. Gibbs – unable to help with the files since he still didn't have his reading glasses – sat in the desk chair with his leg up on the trash can, watching the clock. It had been over an hour.

Gibbs was frustrated. He hated being out of control, especially when they were this close to a resolution. He should be kicking down doors, handcuffing suspects, dragging the bastards down to interrogation. Not sitting here waiting. He'd never been very good at waiting.

The phone on Fredrick's desk had been ringing off the hook, Gibbs answering it each time with increasing annoyance. With less than four hours to go before 'all aboard,' it seemed everyone wanted to talk to the Agent Afloat. Several sailors who'd gotten into civilian legal trouble while ashore these past months had to be cleared to sail. A list of new weapons possession requests arrived by fax, and each one had to be approved or denied by NCIS before they could cast off. A newly-arriving sailor had been caught with nearly 1000 tablets of what he claimed was prescription-strength Tylenol, but what the medical officer checking in personal medications believed to be Oxycontin. For that one, Fredrick told the MP who called that unless the sailor could come up with a prescription for the narcotic – and a damn good excuse for why he was carrying so many – he was not sailing with them. They'd leave him and his crime for the Norfolk office to deal with. It was a busy time for any Agent Afloat, and Gibbs knew Fredrick had set aside the routine stuff in favor of helping them. He supposed he ought to be grateful. But mostly, he was just pissed.

An hour and a half after they arrived, the phone rang again, and again Gibbs snatched it up with ill-conceived irritation. Only this time it was for him. McGee.

"Nicky picked Lewiston out of a six pack," he reported. "And the sport shop owner picked both Fazio and Lewiston as the two he sold the flash bang kits to."

It was coming together.

"There's still no sign of Lewiston or Fazio's car. The Norfolk office has an agent on the house, in case he returns there, and they're contacting all known relatives and associates not on the Roosevelt."

"Good," Gibbs said.

"Ziva's back. The cell phone in the trash at the house is Ferrara's," McGee said.

"Really?" Gibbs said with pleased surprise. Sometimes the bad guys were their own worst enemies.

"Yup." McGee, too, was pleased.

"Document it. Then put together arrest warrant requests for both of them, but don't submit them. We might be able to use Fazio to get the other two."

Gibbs hung up and relayed the information to DiNozzo and Fredrick.

"Two down," DiNozzo commented.

Fredrick spoke up. "We've got it down to seven. Five Marines and a medic from Fourth Platoon, First FAST Company out of Norfolk, plus one hospital medic, a poker partner of Fazio's."

"That's manageable," Gibbs said. "Either of the sailors aboard?"

"Let me check." Fredrick got up and moved toward the computer. Gibbs lowered his leg to the floor and pushed the desk chair out of the way. Fredrick pulled over the chair he'd been sitting in and went to work.

"The hospital medic is. The platoon's at Camp Allen until the end of the month, when they're scheduled to deploy to Gitmo."

"You want us to bring them in, Boss?" DiNozzo asked. He stifled a sudden yawn.

"Not yet. Fredrick, why those seven?" Fredrick glanced at DiNozzo, who nodded encouragement.

Fredrick started running them down. He was nervous at first, expecting Gibbs to challenge him on every point. But when Gibbs just kept listening, and occasionally nodding, he settled in. He'd justified the inclusion of the first three – the surviving members of Lewiston's former unit – when a tapping on the door interrupted him. Fredrick got up to admit Goetz.

"Master Chief, good to see you again," Fredrick said as he made way for the older man to enter.

"I got him to talk about it. But I don't know if it's enough," Goetz said to Gibbs, nodding at Fredrick's greeting. DiNozzo got up, offering his chair to Goetz. The retired sailor dropped into it, shed his crutches and started unbuttoning his shirt to remove the microphone.

"Did he admit it?" Gibbs asked.

"Sort of. He admitted he passed on the information, and he obviously knows and approves of what they're doing. But he never actually said 'I told them to commit assault and murder.' The best I could get was he told them to do what they could to 'help me overcome my sin'."

"Damn it," Gibbs said. He washed his hand over his face. "Let's hear it."

Goetz pulled the recorder out of his waistband and handed it to DiNozzo.

"I don't know how loud I'm going to be able to make this go," Tony said.

"You can play it through the computer speakers," Fredrick offered. Gibbs nodded his agreement. Fredrick retook his chair, attached an audio cable to the recorder's headphone jack, made a few adjustments on the computer itself, and rewound the recording.

"How far back?" he asked.

"Maybe, forty-five minutes?" Goetz said. Fredrick nodded and watched the time counter roll back. Out of chairs, DiNozzo sat on the edge of Fredrick's desk.

The first stop wasn't far enough: The priest's voice came loud and clear through the computer's small speakers. Fredrick went further back, and a group of voices.

"Too far. I was still in medical," Goetz said. Fredrick nodded and moved it forward.

When he finally had it, the four men sat in silence as the conversation played.

Thayer and Goetz started out with small talk. The priest was surprised to see him, wondering what he was doing aboard. Goetz offered his story about visiting old friends. It worked, since Goetz had left the ship's last cruise unexpectedly, and this was his last opportunity to see them before they deployed again. They chatted about the war, the upcoming cruise, people they'd worked with who'd moved on to other duty stations.

"You can bump it up a bit," Goetz said. "It took awhile to get to the subject."

Fredrick fast-forwarded it in short bursts, stopping occasionally so Goetz could check the conversation. He heard what he was waiting for and told Fredrick to go from there.

They listened for a minute or so more as the conversation waned. Then Thayer asked Goetz if he'd like to give one last confession to his old priest before they sailed. Goetz seemed to think about it, then agreed. There were sounds of movement and some grunting and bursts of breath. "It's not as easy for me to kneel as it used to be," Goetz explained to the men in the office.

The agents listened intently as Goetz went through the preliminaries. It had been nine months since his last confession. He spoke of committing many lesser sins: He'd gotten angry, used foul language, told small lies. He'd failed to attend mass regularly. He hadn't taken communion.

"_Is there anything else, my son?" _Thayer asked.

"_I..."_ On the recording, Goetz's voice fell off. In the office, the three agents waited. Gibbs glanced at Goetz and saw that his head was down, his eyes closed. He was holding his rosary, the beads wrapped through his fingers.

"_I have often struggled with sexual sin,"_ Goetz's voice, softer now, came through the speakers.

Gibbs made a 'cut it' motion with his hand at his throat, and Fredrick stopped the playback. Goetz looked up at them.

"You okay with this? We don't all need to hear it," Gibbs said. He cast a meaningful glance at Fredrick, who frowned. Goetz looked at Gibbs for a moment, then a brief smile of appreciation appeared and he nodded.

"I'm hungry," Goetz said and stuffed the rosary into his pocket. He grabbed his crutches. "Lunch is still on. You care to join me, Agent Fredrick?" he asked. Fredrick looked from Gibbs to Goetz and back.

"Good idea," Gibbs immediately backed him up.

"What?" Fredrick asked. His disbelief at being dismissed was obvious. "You can't..."

"Bring us back something when you're done," Gibbs overrode his objection. "And some coffee." With a barely-disguised look of resentment, Fredrick stood.

"Fine," he said tightly. "After you, Master Chief." The two men left the office, the door closing with a loud clang behind them.

"You want me to go with them?" DiNozzo asked in the ensuing silence. He yawned again, and Gibbs gave him a glare.

"Just play it," Gibbs said.

* * *

to be continued...

That's it for tonight. Enjoy. And let me know what you think, will you please? Feedback keeps writers writing. joy


	35. Part 33

One Less - Part 33

by joykatleen

* * *

DiNozzo took Fredrick's abandoned chair and hit play on the recorder.

"_I have often struggled with sexual sin,"_ Goetz's voice, softer now, came through the speakers.

"_Go on," _the priest said.

"_I was in love with a man," _Goetz said.

"_Yes," _the priest said. Of course he knew that.

Goetz proceeded to lead Father Thayer through the set up: Years ago, he'd started to feel attraction toward other men. He hadn't acted on it at first, but the attraction had grown. He knew it was wrong. The urges he felt became harder to overcome, and the power of temptation eventually grew stronger than his will. Experimentation had lead to a lifestyle he knew was sinful. He'd tried – hard – to stop it, but he hadn't been able to. Then, he was assaulted.

"_The attack was horrible. One of the most traumatizing experiences of my life. The recovery process has been incredibly painful." _Goetz took a breath.

"_After the attack, I was searching for purpose in what I was going through. Eventually I started thinking that maybe this was God's way of..." _His recitation paused, the silence lengthened, and the priest moved to fill it.

"_Punishing your sin?" _the priest offered.

"_Yes," _Goetz said with apparent relief. Gibbs had to give him credit: Goetz was handling this like a pro.

"_Did it change you?" _Thayer asked.

"_In many ways. My... friend... left me. While I was recovering, away from temptation, I realized I couldn't keep living that way, sinning against God. I begged the saints for God's forgiveness. I begged He would help me, make me stronger and more able to resist temptation."_

"_Were your prayers answered?" _the priest asked.

"_Yes. I haven't felt that need for a long time."_

"_So perhaps your injuries had a higher purpose?" _Thayer asked.

"_Maybe... maybe God was trying to teach me something. It certainly changed things."_

"_Perhaps the men who attacked you believed they were doing God's work," _Thayer suggested._ "Helping you overcome your sin and return to God's path." _

Gibbs leaned forward, waiting for it. So far, the conversation was going exactly as Goetz had predicted it would.

Goetz said nothing for a long moment. Then:_ "Why would God allow that?"_

"_The Bible tells us that God disciplines those He loves and punishes those He accepts as His children. Punishment doesn't always come as a lightning bolt from Heaven. Sometimes God uses His people to direct His discipline toward those who need it."_

Again, a pause._ "I don't understand," _Goetz said._ "Are you saying God told those men about my sin? Then told them they had to attack me, to break my legs, that it would somehow help me?"_

"_I don't claim to know the mind, or understand the method, of God," _Thayer said._ "You said your injuries brought you to a state of conviction of your sin. A sin you had been struggling with for many years. It is possible this was what was necessary so that God could get your attention, get you turned in the right direction."_

"_I know I'm weak, and sometimes I've probably needed God's intervention," _Goetz said, his voice dropping again._ "I can even admit that the attack on me changed my life. But I can't believe I'm worthy of a sign from God. I'm not Moses, or Joseph. I was just a sailor, caught up in sin. They didn't know me. So how could they know my sin?"_

"_It was not necessary that the substance of your sin come in a sign from God. Others knew of it."_

"_No they didn't," _Goetz argued._ "I told no one but God."_

"_Those who shared your sin knew," _Thayer said.

"_I only loved one man. He didn't tell anyone," _Goetz said._ "We were always very careful. No one ever saw us together."_

"_God saw you," _Thayer said.

"_I know He did," _Goetz said._ "But I can't believe God whispered my secret sin to some stranger in Greece."_

"_I'm sure He did not," _the priest agreed. There was silence, the only sound the recording of Goetz's breathing and the low hum of digital playback. There were more sounds of movement – Goetz rising from his knees, if Gibbs had to guess – then Thayer finally spoke.

"_Sometimes a priest must make difficult decisions, to ensure God's will is done on earth, and to protect His sheep from the dangers they fail to see or choose to ignore. Sometimes a priest is called on to do things that are... not easy to reconcile with the oaths he has taken."_

"_I don't understand," _Goetz said.

"_You had been struggling with sexual sin for a long time, my son. You spoke of it repeatedly, long before you finally confessed the immoral nature of your desire. I had been praying fervently for the Lord's hand to guide me to how I might help you overcome temptation. Finally the Spirit showed me that if I shared the burden, God would use others to do what I could not."_

"_What did you do?" _Goetz asked softly.

"_I struggled with it. I really did. But in the end, I did what God told me to. At the time, I didn't understand why I had to do it. But knowing how it helped you overcome, helped you to finally find your path... now I understand."_

"_What did you do?" _Goetz repeated.

"_I prayed for guidance, and when the Spirit provided it, I asked someone to help you overcome your temptation."_

"_Help me?" _Goetz asked._ "This was helping me?" _A slapping sound that Gibbs recognized as Goetz hitting one of his leg braces.

"_Sometimes God's discipline is difficult to bear," _Thayer said._ "But in the end, it results in freedom from sin and a closer walk with God."_

On the recording, Goetz took a loud breath.

"_So you told someone about me, told him to punish me for my sin?"_

"_I followed the leading of the Spirit and asked another sailor if he could help you. We prayed together, and he heard from God. He received his mission and did what was necessary to complete it. And in the end, you were delivered from an evil that had been tormenting you for many years. God's will was accomplished in your life."_

"_I don't understand, Father," _Goetz said._ "You asked another sailor to find me while I was ashore in Crete, to attack me and break my legs?"_

"_I told him to pray and to seek God's guidance as to how he could best help you. He did what he did, and it changed your life for the better. Didn't it?"_

There was a pause, and when Goetz spoke again, his voice broke._ "Why did it have to be this way?"_

"_Your sin was threatening to destroy your soul. The work that you were doing, that we all do, is inherently dangerous. You could have been called to eternity at any moment. You had tried to overcome the sin on your own, and you weren't able to. You needed help, and through the grace of God, we were able to provide it."_

"_Who was it? Who did you and God choose to attack me, to end my career? To destroy my life?" _Goetz asked and sniffed hard. Gibbs and DiNozzo exchanged a look of sympathy and surprise. The Master Chief was crying.

"_Your life was not destroyed. Your path was changed, but your life – and your soul – are very much in tact."_

"_Tell me who it was!" _Goetz insisted._ "Don't I have a right to know who else knows about me? About my secrets?"_

"_I'm sorry, my son. That I can not divulge. Just trust me when I say he was doing God's will."_

"_How could it have been God's will?"_ Goetz cried. _"When you told another sailor about my sin, you put me at incredible risk. I could have been court-martialed, dishonorably discharged and lost everything. Would that have been God's will, too?"_ Goetz was trying to control his emotion and clearly losing the battle.

"_It didn't happen that way. You were able to escape your sin and still follow the path God has set out for you. Because of your sin, you had become a bad example for other men. Now, free of that burden, you can once again serve God in a manner that is pleasing to Him."_

"_But I _was_ serving Him. I was saving lives, giving men a second chance to get right with God. I was doing what God had always asked of me."_

"_And now you're teaching the next generation, so others can pick up where you were no longer able to serve."_

"_I was able!"_ Goetz shouted, making both men in the NCIS office jump slightly. _"I was serving God, doing His work. Nothing about my sin ever impacted my service. To God, my country or the Navy."_

"Get a grip, Master Chief," DiNozzo said softly. "Don't lose it now." Gibbs felt the sentiment.

In contrast to Goetz's rising emotion, the priest's voice was steady and firm. The voice of a teacher stating indisputable facts to a recalcitrant student. _"You were not serving God in a manner that was pleasing to Him. You had become a bad example to other sailors and you had to be removed, before the evil you could not fight infected others."_

Gibbs was amazed and saddened at the crap the priest was spouting. He wondered why any gay man would stay with the Catholic church, live his life subject to that attitude. How could any man stand to be told his God thought he was evil because of who he was attracted to?

There were a few loud, wet breaths as Goetz tried to pull himself together.

"_I'm not the only man in the Navy who struggled with this sin,"_ he said. _"Why did I have to suffer like this? What's so special, so particularly evil, about me that I alone was chosen to be dealt with so harshly?"_

"Very good," Gibbs murmured.

"_Oh no, my child, no," _Thayer said, and now there was sympathy in his voice. _"You're not the only one. God's choice of discipline for you was indeed harsh. But it was commiserate with your sin and what was required to bring you back into His light. There are others struggling with lesser and greater evils. Others who have had to suffer as you have so they too could be freed from their sin."_

"_Others who were punished like I was for loving men?"_ Goetz asked.

"_A few,"_ Thayer said. _"Struggle with sexual sin is not uncommon among sailors and Marines so far from home. It is only the nature of the sin, and the grip the sin has over a man's life, that makes it more or less evil, and therefore more or less needing of God's direct intervention. There are others in my parish who are just as trapped in sexual sin as you were."_

"_So there are others whose sin you've been moved to reveal? Who have been punished by man at God's direction for lusting after other men? For being evil?"_

"_You are not evil, Ian. Your sin was evil. You are a man, with man's sinful desires. All men are tempted. It only becomes evil when you embrace it."_

There was a rustling sound and Goetz sniffed again. Gibbs could imagine him wiping at his face, his shirt rubbing against the tiny microphone.

"_There are others who struggle as you did,"_ Thayer said. _"Some – through prayer, fasting, and a commitment to God's Holy word – are able to overcome. Some, like you, are unable to save themselves and need God's intervention. You are not the only man in my parish who struggles with this sin. And you're not the only man whom God has called me to help."_

"Got him," DiNozzo said.

"Almost," Gibbs said. And to himself, he added: Come on, Master Chief, take him just a little further.

There was another pause, more breathing. Goetz's voice. _"I knew a young man, a couple years ago. An O-2 named Brisbin. He... felt like I did about other men."_

"_I know he did,"_ Thayer admitted. _"We often spoke of it."_

"_He was mugged, in Spain. Was that God's discipline too?"_

The priest hesitated. _"Like you, Ben struggled with his desires. He told me on many occasions that he wished God would step in and 'fix' what was broken in him, the thing that made him seek out immoral pleasures. But he, too, was unable to resist, and in the end, he needed our help."_

"_How'd it work out for him?" _Goetz asked. _"Did having him beat fix him?"_ There was a touch of sarcasm in Goetz's voice and Gibbs hoped he wasn't about to let it get out of hand and blow the whole thing.

"_I don't know if he still struggles with temptation or not. I haven't been in touch with him since he left my parish. But I know he was removed from the Navy, as you were, and he has gone on to serve the Lord in other, less dangerous ways."_

"_I have been in touch with him," _Goetz said._ "He's not serving the Lord at all right now. The attack left him deaf, and he hasn't taken it well."_

"_I'm sorry to hear that,"_ Thayer said. _"Sometimes God's plan is beyond our understanding. I'm sure Lt. Brisbin's future is safely in God's hands."_

"_There've been others, too, haven't there? Others who needed your help? Besides me and Ben?"_

"_It's my job, and my responsibility as a man of God, to help those in need, in whatever way I can."_

"_How can you believe this is helping? You're ordering men to commit crimes, to break the laws of God and man. To hurt people."_

"_I am asking them to pray, to seek God's direction, to hear from the Spirit how they can help men overcome temptation."_

"You gotta give him credit for trying," DiNozzo said, and Gibbs stared him into silence.

"_By passing on information you learn during confession, you're violating your vows. The Seal of the Confessional is inviolable. The Church say__s it is absolutely forbidden for a confessor to betray a penitent in any way, in words or in any manner, for any reason."_

"_The Holy Church requires that I do what God commands me, even if I can't reconcile it with Church teachings. When there is conflict between God and Church, God wins every time. I don't pretend to understand why God has chosen this method of allowing me to serve my flock. But he has, and I will not fail in my mission."_

"_So you'll keep doing it? Telling other men things that penitents intend to be confidences between them and God?"_

"_I will keep doing what God instructs me to do, even if I don't understand it. And I will take my joy in knowing that sometimes, as in your case, it helps those who have struggled for years find peace."_

"_I don't understand," _Goetz said.

"_I know,"_ Thayer said. _"There is no way you could."_ They fell silent for almost a full minute.

"_Are you ready for your penance, my son?"_ Thayer said.

The priest finished the liturgy and offered Goetz a blessing, then there was the sound of Goetz rising. They exchanged farewells, the door to the chapel opened and closed, and DiNozzo and Gibbs heard Goetz's crutches on the steel floors.

DiNozzo stopped the recording.

"How can he still be Catholic?" he asked.

"Got me," Gibbs said. "I sure as hell wouldn't be."

"You think the church really thinks that way, that being gay is evil?"

"Hell, I don't know," Gibbs said. "But the church certainly doesn't condone violence as a way to get people to stop sinning. Not anymore, anyway." A pause as something occurred to him. "I want statistics on 'don't ask, don't tell' discharges of personnel assigned to carriers since 9/11. Can you find them?"

"Uh, maybe?" DiNozzo said uncertainly. He turned to Fredrick's computer and started working. After a minute or so, he turned back to Gibbs. "I can call McGee," he said.

"Do it," Gibbs said and DiNozzo picked up the desk phone.

It was idle curiosity, really. Something to occupy his mind while they figured out what to do next. What he wanted to do was march – okay, hobble – down to the chaplain's quarters and arrest the son-of-a-bitch for conspiracy to commit assault and murder. But he wasn't sure they had enough yet. Goetz had been right: The priest had come awfully close to admitting that he was running this thing, but hadn't quite crossed the line. With what they had now, the priest could just claim ignorance. He didn't know what they were actually going to do. After all, asking them to help wasn't the same as asking them to commit assault. He could even claim that he told them not to physically hurt anyone, that they did it despite him. Still, Gibbs wasn't sure how they could get more outside of interrogation.

The door banged open and Fredrick stuck his head in. "Okay to come in?" There was a trace of sarcasm, but not much. Gibbs waved him in. He was carrying a tray of food and coffee cups.

"Well?" Goetz said as he entered behind Fredrick. "Is it enough?"

"We've still got some work to do, but you brought us a hell of a lot closer," Gibbs said.

Goetz sat in the empty chair. Fredrick put down two plates, utensils, and four mugs of coffee. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn, a brownie. Light lunch for reporting day. Gibbs pushed himself over to the table. DiNozzo hung up the phone.

"He'll call when he has it," he said to Gibbs. "Hey, thanks," he added to Fredrick and joined Gibbs. Fredrick sat on the edge of his desk.

"So what's next?" Goetz asked.

"We arrest him, then find the rest of the players," Gibbs said. He took a bite of meatloaf. Not bad. Not great, but not bad. It had probably been made awhile ago.

There was the sudden sound of alert tones from 1-MC, the shipboard public address system. The four men all looked up at the speaker. Old habits die hard.

The message was a thirty-minute warning for 'all aboard.' Guests were to be escorted off ship as soon as possible, and all hands were to be at their assigned duty stations or in quarters for general accounting by 1600 hours.

"I don't think arresting him's a good idea," Fredrick said when the PA clicked off. Gibbs looked at him.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Master Chief gave me the gist of what Thayer said. He hasn't taken responsibility for any of it, and he's not likely to," Fredrick said. "And we don't have any names yet. Arresting him now is a gamble. He may just shut down, and we don't have enough to force him to talk."

"You have another suggestion, Special Agent Fredrick?" Gibbs asked as he ate. His tone was somewhere between annoyed and just humoring him.

Fredrick pushed ahead despite Gibbs's apparent attitude. "Leave him with me. I'll see what I can find out."

"What makes you think you can find out anything Master Chief Goetz and I can't?" Gibbs asked. Moving closer to annoyed now.

"Look, Gibbs, I know you're still pissed at me. You don't have to prove it."

Gibbs just stared at him. If the kid thought he could take him on, let him try.

"He's got to be suspicious," Fredrick said, ignoring the glare and looking at DiNozzo instead. "There's been an extra NCIS agent aboard all week. You've been seen interviewing a sailor Thayer knows is gay. Now you come aboard and the three of us have been locked in here all day. Then Master Chief Goetz, one of the victims, shows up unexpectedly and spends an hour talking to him about it. If he's not already circling the wagons, he's certainly gonna be when we bring in Lewiston's crewmates."

"Okay," DiNozzo said. He, too, was tucking away his meal.

"He believes he and the people he recruits are doing God's work. I'm Catholic. If you two leave, and we sail without arresting anyone, I can approach him and try to convince him you're giving it up for now, because you can't find any hard evidence. I'll tell him I've been protecting him, covering up the evidence, because I believe in his mission. You guys thought I was, and I agree it looked bad, so maybe he'll buy it."

"To what end?" Tony asked, taking a sip of coffee.

"If I can convince him I'm absolutely on his side, I'll tell him I need to know who to protect, past and present, to keep you from getting any further. If he really believes I'm willing to doctor the records, provide some alibis or something, he might give me names."

Gibbs and DiNozzo exchanged glances across the table. That could actually work.

"What about Lewiston's pals?" DiNozzo asked. "The seven we've identified. You know they're going to hear through the grapevine that the ship sailed without him and Fazio."

"We lock down the platoon," Gibbs spoke up. All three men turned to look at him. "You said six of them are from the same platoon. We get the Captain to ask their CO to lock them down at their base for a few days. Isolate the 40 guys, communications blackout. No one'll have any reason to think we're only looking at six of them. And we'll find some reason to hold the other sailor at Navy Medical until we're ready for Thayer."

"The CO's not going to like that, especially if they're in the middle of something," Fredrick said. "They can't just lock up a bunch of FAST Company Marines without an awfully good reason."

"But it could work," DiNozzo said and turned back to Gibbs. "You think you can talk the Captain into setting it up?"

"McNally won't be the problem," Gibbs said. Then to Fredrick: "Can you do it? Get him to give you names?"

"I can try," Fredrick said.

Gibbs shook his head. "Not good enough. If we're going to lock down a platoon of Marines, and let this ship sail with Thayer still aboard, I'm gonna need more than that. Can you do it, or not?"

Fredrick thought it through for a moment. "Yes. I can do it," he said finally.

"How long?"

Fredrick shrugged. "We've got to let him relax a bit first," he said. "Put some space between today and when I talk to him. We'll be at sea two days before we make Charleston Monday afternoon, then another day to Jacksonville before we start the Atlantic crossing Friday next. Five days altogether. If I approach him in Charleston, I can get it done before Jacksonville."

Gibbs considered him. "Alright. You've got your shot. Call the Captain and set us up a meeting. Soon as he's got a few minutes. See if you can get the Marines' top man on video conference. You want in on this, Master Chief?" He turned to Goetz.

"No thanks," Goetz said. "Just let me know when you need me to testify. Otherwise, I'm done."

"One more thing before you bow out?" Gibbs asked. Goetz cocked his head in question.

"Come up with a reason why a perfectly healthy sailor needs to leave this ship and spend a couple days at Navy Medical."

"Not a problem. Give me his medical record, I'll make some adjustments."

Gibbs smiled at him, then turned back to Fredrick. "You got that?" he asked.

Fredrick nodded. "I got it." He went for his computer.

* * *

to be continued...

Now here's the thing, dear readers... 303 visitors since I last posted, and only four reviews? Much appreciation to those who are taking the time to post. Won't the rest of you take a moment and let me know you're here? You don't need to say anything deep or formal. Just "hey, I'm here, I'm enjoying it..." Or, "OMG! CAN'T YOU GET TO THE POINT!" Or anything like that would be fine. Reviews make me very happy indeed. joy


	36. Part 34

**One Less - Part 34**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

The Captain agreed to meet them in the conference room at 1630, and once he knew it was Gibbs asking, agreed to try and set up the video conference without any more questions. While they waited, Fredrick finished briefing them on the rest of the Marines he and DiNozzo had picked out. In addition to three of the surviving members of Lewiston's original unit, there were two others who had joined the decimated group, and the medic brought in to replace Lewiston. He'd been known to associate with all of them since their return from their year overseas, despite his being assigned to stay with the Roosevelt after he finished A-School. All six had also been friendly with Fazio, through Lewiston, in the time the ship had been in port and First FAST Company had been in training at nearby Camp Allen. Based on Fredrick's presentation, it could have been any or none of them. But Gibbs agreed it was a good place to start. If nothing else, they'd be able to interview seven associates of their known dirtbags. That should get them somewhere.

At 1620, Gibbs headed for the conference room. To avoid calling attention to their meeting, they'd decided to go one at a time. Gibbs passed few people on the way; everyone was supposed to be at duty stations or in quarters. He sat alone for five minutes before Fredrick arrived and took a seat two down from Gibbs on the same side of the table. There was strained silence for a few minutes before Fredrick spoke.

"Look, Gibbs, I screwed up, I'm trying to make it right. Can we call a truce or something?"

Gibbs looked at him, expressionless. "You get Thayer to name names, and we'll call it even."

The door opened before Fredrick could respond. Captain McNally, a female Naval officer with Commander's stripes on her service khakis, and an Hispanic Marine Colonel who looked to be in his late fifties entered the conference room. Gibbs again suppressed the urge to stand and salute in the face of all that brass. Fredrick did stand.

"Special Agent Gibbs, it's good to see you again," McNally said, and then on noticing Gibbs' injuries added: "Life at NCIS must be tougher than I thought."

"It has its moments," Gibbs glossed over it. They shook hands.

"This is my XO, Commander Lawson, and Col. Zavala, CO of Security Force Battalion. He was on station at Camp Allen and agreed to come over. NCIS Special Agent Gibbs from the Navy Yard, and our Agent Afloat, Special Agent Fredrick." The Captain introduced them, and there were handshakes all around. A tap on the door, the Captain called enter, and DiNozzo appeared.

"Sorry, took the long way," DiNozzo said. "Special Agent Tony DiNozzo." He added his own introduction to the mix and they all took their seats, agents on one side of the table, officers on the other.

"Agent Fredrick tells me you're going to need our help to finish this thing," McNally said by way of opener.

"We are." Gibbs paused. "But I'm not sure we need to take both you and Cmdr. Lawson away from your duties, sir. Someone ought to be minding the store."

"My CMC is handling things. He's very capable," McNally said with a frown, then his expression cleared and he nodded his understanding. "But that's not what you mean, is it? Sylvia and I have served together for quite some time, Agent Gibbs. There are no secrets between us when it comes to the operation of this ship. She's known most of what's going on here since shortly after you left last week. You can speak freely."

"Fair enough," Gibbs said. "No disrespect intended, Ma'am. We're trying to keep this as quiet as possible."

Lawson nodded, a small smile telling him she understood. She was a tall woman, well-built, dishwater blond hair tied back in a braid, intelligence shinning from her hazel eyes. She exuded an air of confidence and command that was impossible to miss. By presentation alone, Gibbs would not have been surprised to learn she was second in command of one of the Navy's largest attack craft. If her skills matched her presentation, she would definitely make Captain one day.

"Someone want to fill me in?" Col. Zavala spoke up. "I'm feeling a bit like odd man out." The colonel was a short, wide shouldered man who reminded Gibbs of a bulldog. His dark brush cut was graying at the temples, and the skin on his face was deeply wrinkled. He obviously spent a great deal of time outdoors. His voice was deep and slightly accented. Spanish, by way of Mexico. Capt. McNally took the lead.

"My Yeoman was killed in Washington last weekend. Agent Gibbs and his team investigated, and discovered there's been an ongoing conspiracy aboard this ship to assault and disable sailors with the purpose of removing them from the Navy. My Yeoman was their 12th victim since the Roosevelt sailed after 9/11."

"We've identified several of the individuals involved," Gibbs broke in. He didn't want the Captain saying more than was necessary yet. "Three men were involved in Yeoman Ferrara's attack. We've arrested a hospital corpsman and are actively seeking a former FMF medic who was due here today."

"Assigned to one of my platoons?" Zavala asked.

"Formerly Fourth Platoon, First FAST Company," DiNozzo said. "And we have good information that the third man is one of five Marines or a corpsman currently in that platoon."

"So you want to question them?" Zavala asked.

"It's more complicated than that, Colonel," DiNozzo said. "We need you to order them held on base for a couple days."

"I can do that, if you think it's necessary," Zavala agreed. "Holding six guys on station for a few days won't be that big a problem."

"Actually, we need you to hold the whole platoon."

"Why?" Zavala asked.

"We've identified the leader of the conspiracy," DiNozzo said. "He's on board and Agent Fredrick is going to work him on the way to Jacksonville, convince him to give us the names of everyone involved. In the meantime, we don't want him circling the wagons. If he finds out we're holding six associates of two men who didn't show up for 'all-aboard' today, he's gonna figure it out and we'll lose him."

"So you wanna take forty of my men out of service as a smoke screen?" Zavala shook his head. "First Company is in the final weeks of pre-deployment work up. Some of them've got leave coming up, and we've got a full schedule of field training for the rest of them. I need those Marines to be working."

"The platoons are on rotating training schedules," McNally spoke up. "You can shift the schedule so another platoon is in the field this week, and put Fourth Platoon in the classroom until NCIS is done with them. You've got three weeks until deployment. There's plenty of time to get it done. Those men don't need to be in the field this weekend."

Zavala turned to him. "With all due respect, Captain, they're my Marines, and I'll say where they have to be and when," he said.

"Gentlemen," Lawson interrupted the imminent pissing contest. She turned to the agents. "If you know who's running the conspiracy, why don't you arrest him now, save us all a lot of trouble?"

"It's not that simple, ma'am," Fredrick spoke up. "We know who it is, but we don't have enough to arrest him yet. I'm going to work on him and by the time we leave Jacksonville, we will have enough. In the meantime, we need to maintain the status quo in the suspect's mind."

"Who is this suspect?" McNally asked.

Both DiNozzo and Fredrick deferred to Gibbs, who looked at Zavala.

"You were aboard this ship on the last return, correct?" Gibbs asked

"That's correct," Zavala agreed.

"Are you Catholic, Colonel?"

Zavala frowned, clearly not understanding. "Pentecostal. Why?"

Gibbs nodded. Well, that was something, anyway. "This absolutely cannot leave this room. It is crucial to our investigation that conditions on this ship remain status quo, with no change in routine for anyone involved, until we finish this."

"Understood," McNally said. "Commander?"

"Understood," she responded. McNally turned to the Marine Colonel.

"Colonel?"

"Hey, I don't live here," Zavala said. "But understood."

Gibbs took a second to enjoy the bullheadedness of Marines everywhere before turning his attention back to the Captain.

"We believe the head of the conspiracy is your priest, Cmdr. Thayer."

"Father Andrew?" McNally said. His disbelief was clear.

"Yes sir," Gibbs said. "He's been passing information he learned in confession to the other players in the conspiracy."

There was dead silence in the small room for thirty seconds before Zavala spoke. "Sounds like a really good time not to be Catholic."

Both McNally and Lawson turned to stare at him. "Well it does," Zavala said.

"What kind of evidence do you have against him?" McNally asked.

"He admitted it to Master Chief Goetz an hour or so ago," DiNozzo said. "We've got it on tape."

"He admitted to orchestrating Frank's death?" McNally asked.

"Captain, he's the one," Gibbs said, cutting off what he knew could become a long conversation.

McNally took a breath. "Who do you have in custody? Besides Petty Officer Radkoff?"

"A Corpsman First named Fazio," Gibbs said. "We're searching Norfolk and surrounding for a PO2, Daniel Lewiston. Formerly an FMF medic with Fourth Platoon, recently reschooled as an RP. We ran a sting on them last night. One of my team shot him, but he managed to run."

"Was your sting in Norfolk?" McNally asked.

"Washington," Gibbs said. "We tracked him back as far as Ashland, Virginia."

"So you believe he's headed here?"

"Not anymore," DiNozzo said. "He's got a bullet in him, and we've got custody of everything he owns. Tracers on his family and every known friend not already aboard this ship. He's gone to ground, but he'll show up eventually."

"And you think the third man who was involved in Frank's death is a Marine from First FAST Company?" McNally asked. "Those Marines were aboard last year."

"Our evidence points toward Lewiston's former associates in that platoon," DiNozzo explained.

"So in order to maintain the status quo for the priest and provide cover for the six you're really looking at," Zavala said, "You need me to order an entire platoon of Marines held at Norfolk."

"Yes sir," Fredrick said. "We know it's going to be a hassle, but..."

"You have no idea what kind of hassle it's going to be, son," Zavala interrupted him. "Where do you plan to house them? Some of them have been living on base, but I assume you're gonna want to keep them all together and away from anyone else. And how are you going to feed them? I'm not authorizing a smoke screen that'll hold my Marines anywhere they don't have three hots and a cot."

"We'll work that out, sir," Gibbs said. "They'll be well taken care of."

"Isn't there some pretext you can use to get Father Andrew off the ship without raising his suspicion?" McNally asked.

Fredrick shook his head. "The only way this can work is if he thinks they've left without getting what they need." He indicated Gibbs and DiNozzo. "I've got to be on his side, make it look like I'm still protecting him, covering up the attacks."

"Were you?" Zavala asked.

"No, he wasn't," McNally said firmly.

Lawson spoke up. "So you want us to sail tomorrow without changing anything, let more sailors bare their souls to the priest and potentially become targets? After you know what he's doing? What if someone else gets hurt? We can't expose the Navy to that kind of liability."

Gibbs had to hand it to her. She was doing exactly what an executive officer is tasked with: Seeing to the practical, management type issues that the Captain is often too busy to handle. Reducing their exposure to legal liability would certainly fall into that category.

"We know the priest has already given them their next target. As far as we know, they don't have the personnel together to launch the attack," Gibbs said. "My source says there's no danger at least until Charleston, and probably not until the Azores."

"So who's the next target?" McNally asked.

There was hesitation from the Agents' side of the table. Again, deference went to Gibbs.

"I'd rather not say at the moment, sir. He's aware he's been targeted. If the risk increases, we'll ask you to pull him off ship. But knowing their next target means we can protect him and not have to wonder who else they might be hunting."

"And he's agreed to that? To let himself be hunted?" Lawson asked.

"He knows," Gibbs repeated.

"Their pattern is to attack during shore leave," Fredrick said. "Everyone's aboard now until we sail, then it's two days to Charleston. If he stays aboard while we're there, he won't be in danger, and by the time we make Jacksonville, we'll be ready to remove Thayer one way or the other."

"There's more going on here, something you haven't told me," Zavala said. "Like why these victims are being chosen."

Gibbs, looking to McNally for some kind of sign, said nothing. Fredrick and DiNozzo waited.

"Up to you, Captain," Gibbs said after a moment. McNally sighed.

"They're hunting gays," he said. "Identifying them, attacking them while they're on shore leave, and leaving them disabled enough to be discharged. They went too far when they attacked my Yeoman and he was killed."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Zavala spoke again.

"Was Major Ray Ortiz one of their targets?"

"He was," Gibbs said with some hesitation. He wondered if the Colonel had known Ortiz's orientation before his attack, or if he had made the connection between his injuries and the pattern of attacks and was trying to confirm that the Major had been gay.

Zavala glanced down at his hands, which were folded together on the table in front of him. He unfolded them, rubbed at the gold wedding band on his left hand with his right thumb for a moment, then looked up.

"We can house the platoon in our gym on base. It's going to be empty all week. The base's got a disaster kit we can pull for cots and blankets. I'll have my second handle the food angle."

Gibbs' eyebrows rose in surprise. "Thank you, sir. We're going to need them in a communications blackout, to keep it quiet once we start questioning them."

"Not a problem. Fourth platoon is scheduled for an in-depth security briefing and some situational awareness training in two weeks. I'll have their Captain move it up and I'll slap a secrecy label on it. That'll cover the isolation and the blackout."

Gibbs nodded. "That'll work."

"Are there any arrangements you need us to handle?" DiNozzo asked.

"No. I'll have my people set it up," Zavala said. "It might take some time to get them all on base. I'll have someone contact you once they're all accounted for. How soon do you want to start talking to them?"

"Hopefully in the morning, if we can get them all together by then," DiNozzo said. "Once they're settled and the blackout is confirmed, we'll remove the six from the group and isolate them individually'"

"We should be able to figure out which one we're looking for fairly quickly," Gibbs said, "then it'll just be a matter of keeping the rest of them from talking to anyone until we're done with the priest."

"When do you anticipate being ready to release them?" Zavala asked.

"By the time the ship leaves Jacksonville on Friday, it'll be done," Gibbs said.

"Very well. I'll be in touch." With a sharp nod, Zavala stood and left the conference room. When the door was closed behind him, McNally spoke again.

"Have you found any indication he's leaking other information from confession?"

"No. But I'm not sure we'd know," Gibbs said.

"And you expect me to keep on like normal, letting my sailors continue to spill their secrets to a priest who's violating his vows?"

"Our best chance of getting him to give us what we need is to let him think he's being protected," DiNozzo said. "He's got to believe we don't think he's guilty of any crime. So there can't be any change in routine. Nothing to tip him off."

"How can I do that? The men and women on this ship depend on me to protect them. How can I let them expose themselves to that and say nothing?"

"Captain, I understand your dilemma, and if I thought there was any better way..." Gibbs began.

"I've got a buddy in the training division down at Fort Jackson," Cmdr. Lawson spoke up. "What if I get him to assign some additional training hours for the RPs? Thayer's head of that department. If my buddy puts a forthwith on it, it'll keep him real busy for a couple of days."

"You're good at this," DiNozzo said, and she smiled.

"It's what they pay me for. Solutions to administrative nightmares. What do you think, Agent Gibbs?"

Fort Jackson, South Carolina, was home to the Navy Chaplaincy School and Center. Everyone headed for a career in that area had to go through their initial training at that facility, and career continuing education programs were run out of it. If Lawson's buddy was placed right, he would be able to create a training program that had to be completed by all sailors in that rating. And if he made it mandatory to complete the training forthwith – right now – it would indeed keep Thayer busy for awhile.

"Could work. Fredrick?"

If Fredrick was surprised Gibbs was asking his opinion – and he was – he kept it off his face. "I can see it working. Long as you make sure it's something that has to be done by him personally. Might even make what I'm going to do easier if he doesn't have a lot of time to analyze his situation."

"If Thayer's doing this, I do not like the idea of keeping him on my ship," McNally said firmly.

"I know, Captain," Gibbs said. "But it's the best way to get this done. I guarantee you he'll be arrested and away from your command before you start the crossing." He paused, again considering what he was asking. "It's only five days, sir. You can stay busy, avoid the confessional."

"I could. But I can't keep every Catholic on this ship from telling him things he no longer has a right to hear."

"No, you can't," DiNozzo agreed. "We believe the risk is worth it. If we arrest him now, he'll likely walk. Move on to another ship or shore detachment and keep doing the same thing. We need him to take responsibility for the attacks, and we need him to name names."

McNally sighed, a very un-Captain-like act. "Fine. Do it. Meanwhile, I've got a ship to run. You'll keep me informed?"

"We will," Gibbs said. "One more question?"

"Of course," McNally said.

"Did you tell Thayer that we had a witness to Yeoman Ferrara's murder?"

McNally considered, then his eyes widened. "Yes. The night after you were here. We were talking about Frank's death, and I mentioned that you had a witness who'd seen Marines. That upset me, and I wanted to talk to someone about it, in confidence. Did something happen to your witness?"

"They tried. But we took advantage of it. It's how we got Fazio and identified Lewiston. How much more of the investigation have you told him about?"

"I haven't spoken to him since. I've been too busy. I'm sorry, Agent Gibbs. I thought I was speaking in absolute confidence."

"It's understandable, sir," Gibbs said. "You had no reason to believe he had anything to do with it. Our witness is fine, and we didn't know enough when you and I talked for it to cause any other problems."

With a nod of resigned acceptance, McNally stood. Everyone followed suit, Gibbs struggling a bit to get upright.

"Let me know if the sailor they've targeted needs to be moved off ship. I'll take care of it," McNally said.

"Yes, sir," Gibbs said.

The Captain left the conference room, Lawson following after a nod of goodbye.

When the door closed behind them, Gibbs turned back to Fredrick.

"You better get this done."

"I will," he swore.

"DiNozzo, get packed up. You can sleep at home tonight, pick me up in the morning."

"Yes!" DiNozzo crowed. "Thank you Boss."

They left as they'd arrived, one at a time. Gibbs was first back to the NCIS office. He found Goetz waiting, the sailor's new adjusted medical report in hand.

"Your suspect sailor is about to find out he had some abnormal labs at his pre-deployment physical. Possible exposure to SARS on his recent trip to Toronto. He'll have to leave the ship and be isolated for at least five days while they rule out infection."

"Is that still around?" Gibbs asked. He leaned against the table, not wanting to sit only to get up again in a minute.

"Not really. But if it recurs, it'll be there. I figured it was better than scaring everyone by giving him the plague. I sent an alert from Bethesda to Cmdr. Pauley requiring the sailor's immediate transfer to an isolation unit at Portsmouth. He'll be there within the hour and you can talk to him tonight if you want to."

"Probably not until we're done with the Marines. You ready to head out?"

"Whenever you are."

Gibbs called Major Mallick and was told the helicopter would be back on station within 15 minutes. Goetz left first. When DiNozzo appeared a few minutes later, Gibbs told him they'd be waiting for him at the car, then he, too, hobbled off the ship.

* * *

to be continued...

Thanks to those of you who reviewed the last part. Ten is better than four. :o) More would be cool. I hang on your every word.

To those who reviewed without signing in: Lynne, thanks for chiming in. Jo, I appreciate your kind words, as always. (Wish you'd log in once, so I can send you proper thanks.) tj: No, I'm not, and I very much appreciate the information you offered. I'd never heard of the concept, and I love discovering new things to research. Can't use it here, but it goes into my wealth of knowledge for RL, and that's priceless. joy


	37. Part 35

**One Less - Part 35**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

The return flight was uneventful, the helicopter flying into the sun as it set. During the short drive through the dark streets to the Navy Yard, the two men rode mostly in silence, each consumed with his own thoughts of what had happened on board and what would happen next. Gibbs had Goetz drop him off in front of the building, and with a final thanks, Gibbs waved him off.

There was a stack of pink message slips piled neatly in the center of his desk when Gibbs arrived back in the squad room. He fell into the chair – he was going to have to get better at that – and stowed his Sig before shuffling rapidly through the stack. Nine little pink squares, a mix of McGee's handwriting and Ziva's printing, one in red marker that had to be from Abby, plus two in a script he didn't recognize and couldn't make out. He still didn't have his glasses.

Gibbs turned on his desk light and pushed the papers to the top of his desk. Shining the light directly on the stack at that distance made the print clear enough to read. There was little that interested him at first. Routine stuff from personnel and the director's office, nothing that couldn't wait.

The seventh message caught his attention. It was one of the ones taken by what had to be the switchboard operator. Acosta, calling from Quantico. O'Sullivan had asked the brig guard to call and tell Gibbs he'd remembered something else that might be helpful. No indication of what it was. Gibbs set that one aside, and moved on. The eighth was actually a note from Abby, asking him to let her know when he got in. No hurry. The final message had been taken by McGee. Gregor over at the BX had called at 5:30. Gibbs hadn't returned, and the store had closed at 5:00. He'd be taking Nicky to his house for the night, unless Gibbs had other plans. Gregor's home number was scrawled on the bottom. Gibbs glanced at his watch. It was almost 6:00. He'd forgotten that Gregor closed early on Friday nights. Gibbs figured Nicky would be fine.

He returned the call from Acosta, getting him on his personal cell.

"O'Sullivan thinks he might know someone with information on an attack on a Marine Major, connected to the cases you were asking him about," Acosta said when Gibbs had him on the line.

"Really?" Gibbs said. He wasn't about to get excited, but the kid's information had been good so far, and they had zero leads on Ortiz. "What's he got?"

"He won't say. Says he'll only tell you."

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"Because you told him to," Acosta said. Gibbs sighed. He had, hadn't he.

"Can we do it by phone?"

"He insisted he wanted to see you face to face," Acosta said. "You want me to try and find out what he knows?"

Gibbs considered. "Nah. You got access to a videoconference facility?"

"Yeah, I mean, we have one. We sometimes use it for hearings when we can't arrange transport."

"Can you set us up?"

"I'm about to go EOW. You need it to be tonight?"

"I do," Gibbs said.

"I guess I can try, if O'Sullivan's okay with it."

"Tell him that's the way I need it to be. If you can set it up, call me in MTAC." Gibbs recited the information Acosta would need to request a conference in the secure room.

"I'll see what I can do. I suppose I owe you a little something."

"Just a little?" Gibbs asked. He didn't wait for Acosta to reply. "Any problems, call my cell." Gibbs gave him that number too, then pushed the disconnect button before releasing it and dialing up to MTAC. He spoke to the watch supervisor, warning him of the pending conference call. Poking the disconnect one more time, he called down to Abby's lab.

"Yeah, Abby, I'm back. What'da you need?" he asked.

"We've got something to show you," Abby said. "Can you come down?"

"Be right there," Gibbs said.

This time when he stood on the leg brace, he felt a distinct complaint from somewhere on the outside of his knee. He realized he hadn't taken any pain pills yet today and briefly considered, then rejected, taking some now. He'd just have to stay off it as much as he could until he got home. Then he'd take something before bed. Kill two birds.

Moving carefully, he rode the elevator down to Abby's. When the elevator doors opened, he frowned. Her music was on, but it instead of the usual head-banging metal, it was… classical? The light coming out of the lab was subdued and flickering. Candlelight? What the hell was she up to now? He hobbled into the lab. Abby, Ziva and McGee were standing in a half-circle in front of the plasma, their backs to him. Several dozen candles sat in jars around the lab.

"Hosting a séance?" he asked as an opener.

Abby turned to look at him. "Of course not, silly. The music's all wrong for that. We're just trying to create an atmosphere of intense concentration."

She handed the remote clicker to McGee and tromped into her office, emerging a moment later with a tiny coffee cup. About six ounces, if Gibbs had to guess. She brought it and one of her lab stools over to him, making room for the stool between McGee and Ziva.

"Sit. And here." She held out the little cup. He settled back on the stool, transferred both crutches to his left hand and took the cup.

"What is it?" he asked. He sniffed at the lid. Smelled like his coffee. Took a sip. Yup. Abby took the crutches and leaned them against the work station behind them.

"You're not going to be able to carry coffee for awhile, so I figured this was about the right amount to drink while you're down here. I'll keep the pot going."

Gibbs gave her a half smile and a nod. "So what'd'ya got to show me?"

"We're trying to put it all together, so we know where we're at," McGee provided. He clicked the remote a few frames to a collection of the victim photographs.

"We put what we know about each of the attacks on a separate slide, then set up a comparison chart," McGee added, and showed them.

Gibbs followed along as his junior agent made a concise presentation of their complicated case. On Ferrara, they had one in custody, one identified, and the third likely among the Marines they'd talk to in the morning. DNA present on Ferrara's body was a positive match to the blood from the warehouse, which Abby had positively matched to Lewiston. Once they had him in custody, they'd have somewhere to go on the other sailors involved in Goetz's attack.

Then, if what they'd discovered about recruitment was true, at least one of Lewiston or the other two men who'd left samples on Goetz would be involved in the attack on Brisbin, which was connected by DNA to the attack in Spain three years prior. Bridging the gap between those two attacks might get them something useful on the ones in between. A little more work on Radkoff and they'd likely get somewhere with Hutchinson, which was as far back as the statute of limitations would let them go.

"That it?" Gibbs asked when McGee was done.

"Yes," the younger agent admitted.

"We need to get something more from Radkoff," Ziva said.

"We will. Has his lawyer called yet?"

"We have not been advised that he has asked for one yet."

Gibbs' phone rang and he dug it out.

"We're ready to set it up, Gunny," Acosta said. "About 15 minutes."

"I'll be there," Gibbs said, and snapped his phone shut.

"Ziva, go home and be ready to go to Norfolk in the morning. Abby, just go home. McGee, with me." Gibbs slid off the stool and McGee handed him the crutches, then trailed after him.

"Need you to run a videoconference for me," Gibbs said when they were on the elevator headed up.

"Who with?" McGee asked. The elevator dinged at the upper level of the third floor.

"O'Sullivan's got something more to say. Might be about Major Ortiz."

"What does he know?" McGee asked.

"That's what we're going to find out, McGee," Gibbs said, making McGee blush a little.

"Right," he said.

At the door to MTAC, Gibbs leaned into the retinal scanner and felt a small twitch of pain at the back of his eye. He gave a silent prayer that the headache wasn't on it's way back. McGee grabbed the door and they went into the darkened room.

There were three techs in the room. The main screen was dark, but two of the monitoring stations showed activity. The shift supervisor saw Gibbs descending the ramp and stood to greet him, indicating an empty station.

"Your conference will be there, Agent Gibbs," the tech said. "You can take the seat if you want." Gibbs nodded his thanks and sat in the chair in front of the monitor. McGee took the crutches and set them out of the way. He had a quiet conversation with the supervisor, then pulled up another chair. Gibbs rolled sideways and gave McGee space. While he waited for McGee to set it up, Gibbs glanced around the room. At one of the active stations, the tech was watching a split screen: A ship at sea from the viewpoint of an approaching aircraft on one side, a radar sweep pattern on the other. The second station showed a changing series of snapshots of Naval operations. Gibbs considered that, then realized the tech was building a slide show.

The screen in front of McGee flickered to life, filling with color bars. He handed Gibbs a headset. After a moment, the view changed to an empty room, the shot tight on two empty chairs sitting on the opposite side of some kind of flat surface. A table or a counter maybe. Acosta had said they used the setup for hearings, so Gibbs supposed the camera only needed to see two faces: The accused and his lawyer.

They waited another three minutes before there was a subtle change in the light, and Gibbs heard movement through his headset. O'Sullivan appeared and took one of the chairs. His t-shirt was dark with sweat under his arms and down the center of his chest. His dog tags swung free outside his shirt. He must have been in PT. The big Marine looked up at the camera, then looked back over his shoulder.

"Is he live?" O'Sullivan asked. The responding voice off camera was Acosta's.

"You there, Gunny?"

"Here. Can you hear me?" Gibbs spoke into the microphone at his throat.

"Yes, sir," O'Sullivan said. His gaze went to a spot just below the camera and he spoke at that level.

"There's nothing on my screen," O'Sullivan said. McGee worked the computer in front of him for a moment, then O'Sullivan suddenly nodded.

"There you are," he said. "Thanks for talking to me, Special Agent Gibbs," O'Sullivan said.

"You have something for me?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes, sir. Something I remembered a couple hours ago. I was thinking about the time that led up to what you were asking me about. I remembered something else that happened. Something I didn't think of yesterday," he said. His eyes flickered up to the camera. Gibbs realized a couple of things: the video screen on which O'Sullivan was watching them was below the camera, and O'Sullivan was trying hard to convince Gibbs that whatever he had to say was something he hadn't remembered last time they met.

"It's alright. I appreciate you giving it some thought."

"It's just, I want to be sure you don't think I was holding anything back," O'Sullivan said earnestly, and Gibbs suddenly realized why he was trying so hard.

"Is that why you wanted to do this face to face?"

"Yes, sir," O'Sullivan said, looking directly into the camera now. "I wanted you to see me, to know I'm telling the truth. That I just remembered this. I don't want you thinking you should change the deal."

Gibbs actually smiled at him. "It's alright, Tadhg. You didn't have to convince me. I know you weren't holding anything back. Why would you, with what I was offering?"

"Exactly," O'Sullivan said emphatically. "I wouldn't. You need to know that."

"I do know that," Gibbs said. "The deal's done. I won't be changing my mind."

"Thank you, sir."

Gibbs nodded. "Have they moved your daughter yet?"

"Tomorrow. My dad's going to ride with her in the ambulance. So she won't be scared."

"Good. So what do you have for me?"

"You remember we talked about Major Ortiz?" His gaze was back on the monitor below the camera.

"Yes," Gibbs said.

"We stayed in Dubai an extra two days while they searched for him, then sailed for two days before word came that he was found."

"Right," Gibbs agreed.

"During the two days we were at sea, there was a fight in the chapel. A sailor got into it with the priest."

"Physical fight?" Gibbs asked.

"Most definitely. They tore the place up. Caused some serious damage."

"What were they fighting about?"

"Scuttlebutt said it was about Major Ortiz. The sailor was really upset that we'd left him behind. He apparently thought the priest had something to do with making the call to sail on. Guy went totally crazy. Took three MPs to pull him off. Thing was, it was a sailor, not a Marine. You'd have expected one of ours to be demanding a few answers from the officer corps. And why the priest? It's not like he had anything to say about it."

"Who was the sailor?" Gibbs asked.

O'Sullivan shrugged. "I don't know. But the weird thing was he didn't go anywhere. I mean, he attacked a senior officer without provocation. He should have been court martialed. Discharged at a minimum. But he wasn't. He was back on duty before the chapel was even repaired."

"Odd," Gibbs commented. O'Sullivan looked back into the camera lens.

"I don't know if it's related, but I thought it might be important. There had to be some reason why he stayed aboard. Lots of speculation, but no good reason I ever heard. No one ever heard from him directly as far as I know. He just went back to work like nothing happened. Then when they found the Major, that story took over and no one cared about the fight anymore. I don't know who he was, but that kind of thing would have generated a ton of paperwork. You should be able to find it."

"We will. Anything else?"

"No. Except..." O'Sullivan looked down at his monitor and licked his lips. Nervous now.

"I got a call from JAG this afternoon. They want to meet with me. You know what it's about?"

"Maybe," Gibbs said.

"Should I agree to it?" O'Sullivan was watching the screen intently.

"Yes," Gibbs said without hesitation. "Take your lawyer with you."

The big Marine nodded several times in rapid succession. "Okay. I will. Thanks. A lot."

"You think of anything else, call me. Staff Sergeant Acosta's got the number."

"I will."

"Is he still there?"

"I'm here, Gunny," Acosta's voice from off camera. The Staff Sergeant leaned down into the frame.

"You hear that?"

"Yup."

"Anything he has to tell me, you'll arrange the call?"

"Will do."

Gibbs made a cut it motion to McGee, and the screen went back to color bars.

"What do you think it means, Boss?" McGee asked. Gibbs took off his headset and handed it to McGee, who put it and his own away.

"Don't know. Might be nothing. But if the sailor was that pissed at the priest, chances are he knew the priest had something to do with Ortiz. Find the report."

McGee nodded. He got up and handed Gibbs the crutches, then followed him up the ramp and out of MTAC. McGee jogged down the stairs into the bullpen while Gibbs went for the elevator.

While McGee did his thing, Gibbs sat at his desk and called Gregor. The shopkeeper had offered Nicky his spare room for the weekend in exchange for his work that day in the BX. Gregor told Gibbs that there might be something long term in it – he was alone in a big house since his wife died, and he could use some company. Not to mention some discount labor at the store. It had taken a little pushing by Gregor, but Nicky had eventually agreed.

"How much longer is he at risk, Gibbs?" Gregor asked.

"Shouldn't be much longer. He'll probably be fine by Monday. We've got two suspects outstanding. One unidentified. Just keep him out of downtown this weekend."

"Will do. He really is a good man," Gregor said.

"I know."

By the time he hung up, McGee had something.

"I found the incident report," McGee said from his desk. "It was classified."

"But you read it, right?" Gibbs asked. He pulled out the lower drawer of his desk and turned his chair sideways so he could rest his leg on it.

"Yeah. It was like O'Sullivan said. The night after the ship sailed from Dubai in 2005, Cmdr. Thayer was taking confession from a sailor who became increasingly distraught. They began to argue, and before Thayer could calm the sailor, it got physical. The sailor attacked and Thayer defended himself. By the time the scuffle was noticed and MPs were called, significant damage had been done to the furnishings in the chapel."

"What else?" Gibbs asked.

"Mass Communications Specialist Second Class Steven Ramey was briefly detained in the ship's brig, but at Cmdr. Thayer's insistence, he was released to return to full duty the next day, with a recommendation for no charges, only counseling to help him overcome the issue that had caused him to lose it."

"That it?" Gibbs asked when McGee stopped again.

"Yup. I've got Ramey's SRB coming up..." McGee worked his computer, scanned the results for a moment, then continued.

"There's a note about the incident in his record, but there was no additional punishment, as far as I can tell. He remained in his rank and position until..." McGee scanned again. "He was reassigned to the USS Bataan in last year. It was his fourth request for reassignment since the incident. The prior three were rejected."

"Reason?" McGee did some searching.

"Doesn't say. Just request denied."

Gibbs considered that. The Navy rarely cared which sailor filled a particular slot. One warm body was as good as any other unless a commanding officer specifically wanted someone somewhere. To have a request for transfer denied three times in four years meant someone really wanted this sailor to stay put. Why?

"Same officer sign off on the rejections?" McGee looked.

"No. It's just a rubber stamp from the Office of Navy Personnel."

"What about the approval?"

"Signed by the Command Master Chiefs of both ships, without comment," McGee said.

Gibbs thought about that some more.

"Was he up for promotion between the incident and his reassignment?"

"No. He didn't apply."

Another moment of silence.

"How long had he been in the Navy before the fight?"

"Five years. Almost all of it aboard the Roosevelt."

So he'd been a Petty Officer Second for more than five years. His career appeared to have stalled after the incident, even though there was no direct negative effect from the fight with the priest.

"Isn't Bataan in Norfolk right now?" Gibbs asked. McGee checked.

"Yes."

"Alright. See if you can find any connections between this guy and any of the victims. Or anyone else we know. And confirm a current address. Send what you find to DiNozzo's email. We might want to talk to him while we're there tomorrow."

"You need me there?" McGee asked.

"No. I need you here."

"Got it," McGee said.

"And go home. You can work on it there."

"You sure, Boss?" McGee asked.

"You can take me home on the way," Gibbs said.

"Sure thing. Let me get packed up."

While McGee gathered his stuff, Gibbs did the same. The complaint from his knee when he stood this time was louder. Probably ought to stay off it the rest of the night.

**xxxxxxxXXXXXXXxxxxxxx**

Colonel Zavala's second in command called while they were on the way to Gibbs' house. The platoon was all present at Camp Allen, and the blackout had been established. They were clear to begin interviewing the Marines in the morning. Gibbs thanked the man and hung up, a little surprised the Colonel had made it happen that fast. He wondered again about the Colonel's sudden change of heart.

At his house, Gibbs shooed away McGee's attempts to help him get settled. The younger man reluctantly left him leaning against his kitchen island with the take outs they'd picked up on the way. When Gibbs was sure he was gone, he grabbed the take out bag and a beer from the fridge. Using only one of the crutches, he hobbled out to the living room and fell onto the couch.

Gibbs put his leg up on the coffee table and dug in. It had been a long day, and moving around on the crutches made everything take twice as much energy. After a day like this, he would usually take a long, hot shower, work on the boat for awhile, and go to bed early. The shower probably not a good idea: Even if he could figure out how to keep the brace dry, he wasn't sure he could stand that long. Trying to get down the basement stairs was also not wise. Which left going to bed early. Not such a bad idea, really. He could feel a definite pain from his knee, and echoes in his temples. Not a full-blown headache, and certainly nothing like what had been plaguing him the last few days. But pain nonetheless. He'd finish his meal, take a couple of Ducky's pills, and try to make it upstairs without killing himself. Sounded like a plan.

* * *

to be continued...

We are Sooooooo getting there. Won't be long now. But it's going to be a little longer than you'd like, because I think this is it until after Christmas. Maybe one more, but no promises. Things are, as we say in the upper-middle-class-wannabe-ghetto I live in, "hecka busy" around here. So, until then, enjoy your holiday time with family and friends, and be sure to look out for those who don't have any. Oh, and drop me a line or two if you've got a minute. It's the giving season! joy


	38. Part 36

**One Less Part 36**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Maybe it was the pills, or maybe Gibbs was just exhausted, but when he dreamed that night, the substance was mostly pleasant. It was Shannon, and Kelly, and it was alright. Several times the dreams tried to turn ugly, but each time the dream faded just as things started to darken. Gibbs woke early, feeling pretty good. Except for the knee. That was killing him.

DiNozzo and David showed up while he was still getting ready. Not only did the crutches make everything more work, it made everything take longer. Besides, not wanting to traverse the stairs more than he had to, he hadn't had any coffee. That always made him drag.

"Hey Boss, no coffee?" DiNozzo said, ducking his head through Gibbs' open bathroom door. Gibbs was balanced on his good leg, the toes of his bad one just resting on the bath mat, leaning on the sink while he brushed his teeth. After using the hand shower to wash everything but his bad leg while sitting on the edge of the tub, he'd managed to get on a t-shirt, a pair of khakis and one boot and sock.

Gibbs grumbled at him and with a grin, DiNozzo bounced downstairs. By the time Gibbs had rinsed his mouth and grabbed a polo shirt, he could smell the coffee brewing. His second was a good man. Drove him nuts more often than not, but a good man nonetheless.

Gibbs took two more of Ducky's pain pills and pulled his polo shirt on over his head. He holstered his Sig, filled his pockets, then took a second to be sure he had everything he needed from the second floor. He stuffed his extra sock into his pocket, grabbed the crutches and the shoe he'd worn yesterday, and headed down.

His agents were waiting with the coffee, and Gibbs sat at the table to drink his first cup. It was barely seven in the morning. He'd wanted to get to the Marine base as early as possible to get going on the interviews. There was a chance, however slight, that they'd find the key to getting Thayer among Fazio and Lewiston's Marine friends. On that hopeful thought, he wanted to get the interviews done before Roosevelt's scheduled shove-off at 1600 hours.

"McGee sent me some information on a sailor named Ramey," DiNozzo said while Gibbs drank. "Said it was for you."

"What'd he find?" Gibbs asked.

"Superficial connections between Ramey and a few of the victims, nothing noteworthy. He was assigned to the Roosevelt in 2003, transferred to Bataan last year. Since then, he's been living off base in Norfolk. Also mentioned he changed his religious preference from Catholic to Protestant in 2006."

"Huh," Gibbs grunted. That was certainly curious. After fighting with the priest over Ortiz's disappearance, he renounced Catholicism. They definitely needed to talk to this guy.

"Who is he, Gibbs?" Ziva asked.

Gibbs explained what O'Sullivan had told him. "We need to talk to him."

"According to McGee," DiNozzo said, "He's on liberty, not scheduled to return to duty until a week from Monday. We've got his personal cell number."

"We'll call him when we're done at the base."

Draining his first mug, Gibbs had DiNozzo fill an extra-large travel mug with more. DiNozzo offered to help with his sock and shoe and Gibbs accepted with as much dignity as he could muster. When that was done, Gibbs had Ziva get his 'go-bag' out of the front closet, just in case they had to spend the night on the road, and they stepped out into the bright morning.

Gibbs hid a smile when he saw the Cadillac Escalade sitting in front of the house.

"Thought it would be better than a sedan," DiNozzo said casually. "Borrowed it from a friend."

Gibbs nodded. It was certainly going to make the 200-mile ride more comfortable. Good man indeed.

* * *

They arrived at Camp Allen, a small Marine base on the grounds of Naval Station Norfolk, a little before 10. For the first half hour of the trip, Gibbs had felt every bump in the road echo through his knee. But as the pills kicked in, the pain faded. With DiNozzo driving, Ziva riding shotgun, and Gibbs sitting sideways in the longer third row seat with his leg up, he was able to drift in and out of awareness, floating on the sounds of his team's chatter and the wheels over the highway.

Every time Gibbs opened his eyes, he caught Ziva staring at him in the rearview. Her concern over his injuries – and her guilt in being the cause of them – was clear. When their eyes met, she'd always look away, but it would only be moments before she was staring at him again. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore her.

As promised, the Marine platoon was in residence in the base gymnasium. When the agents walked into the gym, they found row after row of green cots, each one precisely made, a duffle underneath. The Marines themselves were sitting on chairs arranged in front of a portable screen in the corner. A First lieutenant was standing at a podium, giving a lecture on something while referring to slides on the screen. Some of the Marines were taking notes. A few were staring blankly around the room. Those would be the true grunts, Gibbs knew.

The platoon's sergeant noticed them and stepped over. "Can I help you sirs, ma'am?" he asked quietly. They identified themselves and showed their badges. Ziva explained they needed to speak to six Marines and DiNozzo handed him the list. The sergeant glanced at it, then back up at them. "May I ask why you need them?"

"Col. Zavala authorized us to speak with them," DiNozzo said. The sergeant clearly wanted to know more, but he was just as clearly well trained.

"Where would you like them?" he asked. Gibbs had given it some thought on the way. He was familiar with the base gym, having spent some time training here during his early career. He knew the facility had a small office and a weight room that would suit their purpose. They'd take the Marines one at a time into the office, then dismiss the rejects to stand by in the weight room until they were finished with all six. That way, the ones they hadn't interviewed yet would remain clueless as to the subject. After the interviews were complete, the men they determined were not involved would be free to speak with their friends. If the one they were looking for turned out to be none of the Marines, but instead the sailor currently being poked and prodded at Navy Medical, the six Marines could rejoin their platoon in the gym until Gibbs was ready to release them all.

"We'll need them one at a time, in the office. And don't give the rest of the list heads up until their turn," Gibbs said.

"Fair enough." The sergeant moved back to the group and caught the lieutenant's attention. When the officer paused in his lecture, the sergeant called out the first name on the list. That Marine, a lance corporal, raised a hand, then came back to them at the sergeant's instruction. The four of them walked to the office, where Gibbs took the chair behind the empty desk and Ziva offered the Marine one of the chairs in front of it. DiNozzo took the other visitor chair, and Ziva stood beside Gibbs behind the desk. Gibbs placed a digital recorder on the desk. He wasn't in the mood to take notes on at least five interviews that would get them nothing and this way there'd be no questions about how they'd dealt with the suspect, if they found him.

After introducing them and assuring the Marine he was not in any trouble, Gibbs let Tony and Ziva take over. The interview went quickly. The lance corporal had been friends with Lewiston and knew Fazio – the reason he was one of the six – but it didn't take them long to determine that while he'd heard rumors of what had happened to the Captain's Yeoman, he hadn't been involved. He also claimed to not know anyone in his platoon who might have participated in the attack. Twenty-five minutes after they started, DiNozzo showed him into the weight room and told him to stay put until someone came for him.

The next few interviews went virtually the same way. One of the Marines knew there'd been a couple of gay sailors assaulted and subsequently drummed out of the Navy, and knew Major Ortiz had been seriously injured, but he had only heard rumors about who might have been involved. The next had only been with the company for a couple of months. He was friends with their two suspects, but was unaware of their personal mission. He had no suggestions where they might find Lewiston, or where to look for other suspects. The fourth interviewee was completely clueless. He'd been on leave for a month prior to reporting for duty yesterday, and hadn't even heard about Ferrara's death. He, too, knew Major Ortiz had been injured, but hadn't heard any rumors as to why. By listening to him talk, Gibbs knew this was the platoon's loner. Every military unit had one: a guy who pulled his weight, did his job, was a team player on duty, but who preferred his own company when off duty.

Three and a half hours after they started, Gibbs' knee was throbbing and they were all getting tired. It was already well past the lunch hour. DiNozzo looked at him hopefully when they dismissed the fourth, but Gibbs just told him to bring in the fifth.

Which was when they hit paydirt. Corporal Richard Rosario was nervous – more so than anyone they'd interviewed so far, even counting Radkoff – and hesitated before answering even the most basic question, as if examining all possible interpretations before responding. The Marine was big, not as tall as O'Sullivan, but heavier. He had big hands which he kept folded in his lap, and when he spoke, his voice was at the low end of bass. Gibbs recalled the morning he'd met Nicky, when the homeless man had described the men he'd seen attack Ferrara. He'd indicated one of the three men was big and deep voiced. Could this be the Marine he'd seen?

As with the others, they started out asking him about his service. He'd been with First FAST Company for five years, in the Marines for eight. He was a Rifleman, the backbone of FAST Company. Along with his platoon, he'd been all over the world in recent years, acting as a security force to protect whatever the Chief of Naval Operations pointed them at.

Taking turns asking the questions, Tony and Ziva circled the main subject. First, they asked about Major Ortiz. Yes, he'd known him. Known of him, anyway. Served under him for awhile before Ortiz left the Security Force Battalion for the position as Marine Liaison Officer aboard the Roosevelt. That was a full two years before First FAST Company rode that ship home from the Persian Gulf last year. Yes, he'd heard what happened to Ortiz in Dubai. He'd heard the rumors about why it had happened, but had no personal knowledge of it.

DiNozzo asked him about Lewiston next. Of course Rosario knew him. Rosario had been part of the squad that got torn apart by the IED attack, the one that caused Lewiston – their 'Doc' in Marine terms – to suffer PTSD and change rates. He said he wasn't sure where Lewiston went after he left FAST Company. Knew he wasn't a medic anymore, but hadn't spoken to him in awhile.

"Really?" Ziva asked. "Not for awhile?"

"No, ma'am," Rosario confirmed.

"We were told you were with him and a Hospital Corpsman named Fazio in Washington last weekend," DiNozzo said.

There was a long silence. Rosario looked back and forth between the two agents, then glanced at the thus-far silent Gibbs.

"Okay, yeah. I hitched a ride up there with them last weekend. They were going. There was a notice on the travel board, looking for a carpooler to share gas money. I took advantage of it. They dropped me off in D.C. and I haven't seen them since."

"Why'd you lie?" DiNozzo asked, taking the lead.

Rosario sighed. "I heard there was some trouble. I didn't want you to think I had anything to do with it. That's why you're here, right?"

"What kind of trouble?" DiNozzo asked, ignoring his question.

"I don't know. Some kind of fight. I heard someone got hurt."

"What else did you hear?"

Rosario shrugged. "That's it, sir. Lewiston and Fazio got into a fight and someone got hurt."

"One of them?"

"No, some other guy."

"What were you doing in Washington?" Ziva asked. Rosario turned his attention that way.

"I went to a club."

"What club?" DiNozzo asked.

"The Science Club."

"Georgetown?"

"Golden Triangle." DiNozzo nodded. That was right, at least.

"Did you go alone?" Ziva asked.

"I was supposed to meet some friends. They didn't show."

"So you were alone," Ziva repeated.

"No," Rosario said. "I was with people all night."

"Anyone you knew? Who can give you an alibi?" DiNozzo asked.

Rosario shrugged. "No. But I bought drinks on my credit card. All night."

The agents didn't even blink. Distances in the District were short. The attack on Ferrara had taken place less than three miles from there, and they didn't have a firm time of death. Which meant that unless this guy bought drinks every fifteen minutes from dusk to dawn, that alibi was worthless.

"You see Fazio or Lewiston there?"

"No, ma'am. I told you, I never saw them again after they dropped me off."

"And you don't know what the fight they got into was about?" DiNozzo asked.

"No, sir."

"How did you hear about it?" Ziva asked.

"Ma'am?"

"How did you hear about the trouble last weekend. Who told you?"

Rosario shrugged, paused again. "I don't know. I just heard it around. We've been doing equipment checks and training upgrades all week. Marines talk."

"About a fight that took place more than 200 miles away involving two sailors who aren't attached to your unit?" DiNozzo asked.

"Doc's been around," Rosario said defensively. "He'd changed rates and had been assigned to the Roosevelt, but he'd been hanging around during some of our non-classified training sessions. He's thinking of rejoining the Security Force Battalion as an RP. I think." He seemed to realize that contradicted what he'd claimed to know earlier about Lewiston, and tried to fix it.

"He was around some of our training sessions, but he wasn't part of what I was doing. I assume that's why he was here. But I don't know for sure."

"Really," Ziva said with more than a touch of sarcasm.

"Really," Rosario insisted.

"So where is he now?" DiNozzo asked.

"I don't know," Rosario said.

"You do not know," Ziva repeated.

"No, I don't. Why are you looking for him? How badly did the guy get hurt?"

Ziva and DiNozzo looked at one another but didn't reply. There was almost a full minute of silence before Ziva started again. She backtracked a little. Asked about the club Rosario claimed to have been at that night in Washington. About others who might have seen him there. Asked about the entertainment, how many drinks he had, if he bought for others. Solidifying his non-existent alibi. Nothing he told them would preclude him being at the warehouse.

"What do you know about a Master Chief Corpsman named Goetz?" DiNozzo asked next. There was a flicker of recognition there, too.

"He was senior on the Roosevelt when our company rode it home from the Gulf last year," Rosario said.

"Good medic?" DiNozzo asked.

Rosario shrugged. "I suppose. I don't really know."

"You know he was attacked in Greece?"

"I heard."

"Know anything about that?"

"No, sir. Why would I?"

DiNozzo shrugged nonchalantly. "Thought you might. Some friends of yours were involved in that."

Rosario blinked, and cleared his throat before responding. "Who?" His nervousness had spiked a little.

"Tell me about 'One Less'," Gibbs said suddenly, the first words he'd spoken since the interview began. Rosario actually flinched.

"I don't know what that means, sir," Rosario said. He cleared his throat again, looked at DiNozzo, at Ziva, back at Gibbs. Gibbs met DiNozzo's eye and gave a small nod. Take it, Tony.

"Sure you do," DiNozzo said with a cajoling grin, turning in his seat to look at Rosario. "You and Fazio and Lewiston put a note in Petty Officer Ferrara's pocket with that phrase written on it." DiNozzo's expression hardened. "Then you left him in that warehouse to die."

There was another long pause, then Rosario suddenly jumped to his feet and took off out of the office, his chair hitting the floor with a bang.

"He's running?" DiNozzo said incredulously.

"Go get him," Gibbs said, and DiNozzo was after him, Ziva a half step behind.

There was only one way to go out of the office: Through the gym. When DiNozzo and Ziva entered the gym, Rosario was already a quarter of the way across the open space. The Marines were scattered around the large room in small groups, obviously on a break, and they almost as one turned to look at the sound of pounding boots.

"Stop him!" DiNozzo shouted. No one stepped up to help. He kept running, pulling out his badge and holding it high. "NCIS! Stop him!"

That got him something. From the group closest to Rosario, one Marine stood and stepped into his path. Rosario didn't even slow up; hit him like a running back and kept right on going. Rosario was within fifteen feet of the exit door when another Marine reached out and grabbed his arm, hard. Rosario spun toward him and tried to jerk away, but it was all the delay the agents needed. Tony collided with Rosario and they both hit the floor, sliding across the hardwood. DiNozzo ended up on the bottom and fought to hold on to Rosario. Ziva waded into the fray, grabbing Rosario and pulling him far enough away for Tony to get out from under him. DiNozzo jumped to his feet and was grabbed by two Marines. A third Marine tried for Ziva, who managed to hang on to one of Rosario's arms even as she blocked the approaching man and reached for her sidearm. Tony struggled to get free. They were quickly surrounded by Marines, most taking no part in the confrontation, but clearly ready to pick a side once the situation became clearer.

"What the hell is going on?" came a voice of command. DiNozzo looked up to see a Marine Captain striding toward them. Ziva got her Sig clear of its holster and held it up, pointing it at no one.

"Let the agent go!" Another voice of equal command, this one from Gibbs, who had come out of the office on his crutches and was moving across the gym as quickly as he could.

"Stand down, all of you," the Captain ordered the group. He pointed at the Marines holding DiNozzo. "Let him go."

DiNozzo shook loose of the men holding him and slid his handcuffs off his belt. He grabbed Rosario's free arm.

"You're under arrest," he told the Marine.

"You're not cuffing him until I know why," the Captain responded.

"Let him do his job," Gibbs said to the Captain, finally arriving. "You want to talk about it, let my man secure him first."

"What's he under arrest for?" the Captain demanded.

"Not out here, sir," Gibbs replied.

The two men glared at each other for several moments before the Captain nodded.

"Bring him into the office," he said, and turned away. Ziva holstered her weapon and grabbed both of Rosario's arms, twisting one of them up behind his back. She followed the Captain back across the gym toward the office, pushing the bigger man ahead of her. Gibbs and DiNozzo followed at a slower pace.

Once inside, the Captain gestured toward the chair that was still upright. Ziva put Rosario in it. The Captain took the seat behind the desk. When DiNozzo and Gibbs arrived a few moments later, DiNozzo uprighted the other chair and Gibbs sat. Tony and Ziva took positions on both sides of the doorway.

"Care to explain what you want with my Marine?" the Captain said when they were all settled. He was young, maybe 35 years old, with close-cropped blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses that were definitely not military issue. He wasn't a tall man – probably 5'10 in his boots – but he made up for it with a stiff posture and an attitude of command. There was no doubt he was going to get the information he wanted before he let them take Rosario. Gibbs decided to play along, for now.

"I don't believe we've met, sir. Special Agents Gibbs and DiNozzo, Officer David, NCIS."

"Larrivee," the Captain said shortly.

"Corporal Rosario is wanted in connection with the murder of a sailor in Washington last weekend," Gibbs said.

"Corporal?" Larrivee asked.

"I want a lawyer," Rosario said.

"Were you in Washington last weekend?" Larrivee asked, ignoring the man's demand. Since only questioning by or at the direction of law enforcement was illegal after a demand for an attorney, Gibbs let him talk.

"Yes, sir," Rosario said after some hesitation.

"Did you have something to do with a sailor's death?"

Rosario squirmed slightly. Lying to a couple of Navy cops was one thing. Lying to a superior officer was a whole different ball game.

"I didn't kill him," Rosario said.

"Not what I asked, Corporal. Were you there?"

Rosario looked at Gibbs.

"Eyes front, Marine!" Larrivee barked, and Rosario's head jerked toward him. "Were. You. There?" He enunciated each word precisely.

"Yes, sir," Rosario said.

The Captain glanced at Gibbs. "What was the name of the sailor who was killed?"

"Yeoman Second Class Frank Ferrara," Gibbs said.

"The Captain's Yeoman from the Roosevelt," Larrivee said. "I heard about that. Beaten to death, right?"

"That's correct," Gibbs said.

"Is that why you've been interviewing my men all morning?"

"It is," Ziva said. "We had our suspect list narrowed down to a few candidates from this platoon. Our interview with Cpl. Rosario confirmed he is who we are looking for."

"Then he ran," DiNozzo said, "which is about as close to a confession as you can get without opening your mouth."

He turned his attention back to Rosario. "What happened in Washington?"

"I... we..." Rosario swallowed hard. He obviously didn't want to answer, and it was just as obvious that he would, eventually. Gibbs was happy to sit there and let the Captain handle it. He was also happy to note that the digital recorder he'd placed on the desk at the start of the interviews was still dutifully noting everything that was said.

"He shouldn't have been in the Navy in the first place, sir," Rosario suddenly blurted out. "He wouldn't resign. We had a duty to get rid of him."

"Why?" Larrivee said.

"He was a faggot, sir."

Larrivee slammed his hand down on the desktop, making everyone but Gibbs jump. Out of the corner of his eye, Gibbs saw DiNozzo adjust his stance, ready to move, and Ziva instinctively shift her hand to rest it atop her sidearm.

"Watch your tongue, Corporal," Larrivee demanded. "I do not tolerate hate in my company, and you know it."

"Sorry, sir. But it's true," Rosario insisted. "He was making moves on his bunkmates. It was sick."

They had no information that Ferrara had been making moves on anyone. Gibbs wondered if that was how the priest had sold it.

"So what did you do?"

Rosario shook his head. "It was nothing. We were just going to teach him how dangerous it was, being a fa... a homosexual in the Navy. Convince him to resign. That's all."

"And what happened?"

"We knew he was going to Washington that night. We drove up there and waited for him at Amtrak. We followed him. He went to a bunch of gay clubs. It was disgusting. Took all night to finally get him alone. We pushed him around a little, told him what he had to do. Told him the Navy was no place for a guy like him. He put up a fight. I swear, we didn't mean for him to die. We just wanted to make the point. That's all."

Larrivee paused, as if considering his next question. Gibbs silently urged him in the right direction.

"Who else was with you?" Larrivee asked. Not where Gibbs wanted him. They already knew the answer to that one.

"They weren't Marines, sir," Rosario said.

"Are you having trouble hearing me, Corporal?" Larrivee asked. His voice wasn't quite drill-sergeant, but he was getting there.

"No, sir," Rosario said. "They were sailors from the Roosevelt. A Doc that used to work with us, named Lewiston, and a buddy of his named Fazio."

"And the three of you just decided all on your own to run this sailor out of the Navy," Larrivee asked. That was the right question.

"It was Doc's idea," Rosario said. "He said it had worked before."

"Before? This wasn't the first man you'd done this to?" Larrivee asked.

"It was the only time for me. But Lewiston said there'd been others."

"What others?" Larrivee demanded. Rosario paused, glanced again at Gibbs.

"Do not make me ask you again, Marine," Larrivee said. Rosario swallowed.

"The last one was a Corpsman, last year while we overseas. Doc was really pissed when he found out he was gay. Said he'd really looked up to the guy. He was a Master Chief. A real mentor to him. They knew that kind of perv shouldn't be allowed rank like that. They convinced him to resign."

Larrivee turned to Gibbs again. "Did you know about that?"

"Yes sir. We're investigating."

"How serious were his injuries?"

"He's still recovering. He can walk again, but not well, and not far."

"Do you have the other two men in custody? This Fazio and Lewiston?"

"We have Fazio. We're looking for Lewiston."

"Well, you can take this one too. I have no use for bigots in my company."

"But Captain!" Rosario objected. "The service doesn't want those people here. We were just getting rid of them."

Larrivee studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "Get him out of here," he said to Gibbs. "Be sure he gets a lawyer. He's going to need a good one." Larrivee stood and rounded the desk. He paused by the door.

"Inform the Master at Arms that he's in a communications blackout. No calls."

"Absolutely," Gibbs said. It was more imperative now than ever that none of these Marines called the Roosevelt.

Larrivee nodded, then seemed to consider something else. "Was this the only one of my Marines you were looking for?"

"He's the only one," Gibbs confirmed.

"Very well." The Marine officer left them.

"You heard him, Rosario. Let's go get you a lawyer," DiNozzo said. He recuffed the still shell-shocked Marine and pushed him toward the door.

* * *

to be continued...

Well, that's it, folks. You have now met or been introduced to all the OCs in this epic. (I'm pretty sure). I'll post a second Guide to OCs tomorrow with everyone you need to remember from here to the end. Speaking of the end, we're getting there. I did not intend this novel to be THIS long, but I'm enjoying writing it. If you're enjoying reading it, won't you drop me a line or two and let me know? Reviews keep writers writing... joy


	39. Second Guide to OCs

**Author's Note after Part 36**

**Other Characters Worth Remembering**

At this point in the story, readers have met, or at least been introduced to, all of the Other Characters in One Less (I'm pretty sure). The reference below contains those who've been mentioned before who will reappear from here on out. These characters should be remembered. All others have done their duty, delivered their information, and will not be heard from again. (Remember what they said, forget who they are).

**O/C Cast STILL Worth Remembering**

Major Players with parts still to play

1. Special Agent David **Fredrick**: Agent Afloat, USS Roosevelt

2. Will** Taylor**: JAG Attorney (civilian), NCIS Liaison

3. Commander (Father) Andrew **Thayer:** Lead Chaplain, USS Roosevelt

4. Sheldon "Danny" **Lewiston**: Sailor involved in Ferrara's death and attack on Gibbs and David.

5. Petty Officer Stephen **Ramey**: Important, but readers don't yet know why

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

**Now Minor Players who will appear or be mentioned again**

6. Corporal Dominic "**Nicky**" Masterson: Retired Marine, homeless, witness to the murder of Yeoman Frank Ferrara

7. Capt. Simon **McNally:** Commanding Officer, USS Roosevelt

8. Master Chief Hospital Corpsman Ian** Goetz**: Prior victim of the conspiracy, damaged legs, currently teaching at NNMC

9. Marine Private Tadhg **O'Sullivan**: Information source, currently incarcerated at the Quantico Brig, but Gibbs is working on it :o)

10. Sasha **Radkoff**: Sailor involved in one attack, currently in custody

11. Michael **Fazio**: Sailor involved in Ferrara's death and attack on Gibbs and David

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

**Others who will be mentioned again, but only in passing:**

Marine Major Raymond **Ortiz**: Prior victim of the conspiracy, died a year later in hospital

Lt. Brandon **Hutchinson**: Victim of conspiracy, paralyzed

Lt. Ben **Brisbin**: Victim of conspiracy, deafened. Now homeless and unreachable somewhere in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

Leroy **Demmings**: Victim of conspiracy, recovered and stayed in Navy.

**Gregor**: Proprietor of Navy Yard Base Exchange (BX), new employer of Nicky


	40. Part 37

**One Less - Part 37**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

They put Rosario in the middle seat of the Escalade, Ziva beside him. In the back seat out of Rosario's sight, Gibbs pulled out the digital recorder he'd picked up off the desk as they left. The fact that Rosario had kept talking to the Captain after he asked for a lawyer meant he wanted to talk. Given the right inspiration, he'd probably give them everything. But they'd have to be careful. They were already walking a fine line, Constitutionally speaking. Rosario had asked for a lawyer. There could be no more questioning unless he waived his rights. Voluntarily, and without coercion.

Gibbs clicked on the recorder and set it on the seat beside him, tucking the back end of it under his braced leg to keep it from sliding around. The ball was in Rosario's court. If he said nothing, the agents wouldn't either. If he decided to talk, this way they'd have proof he hadn't been coerced.

They hit a speed bump and Gibbs cringed as the shock of it echoed up his leg. The rush across the gym hadn't done his knee any good. In the heat of the moment he'd put weight on it for a few steps. As a result it felt almost as bad as it had the first night. He pulled out the bottle of pills Ducky had given him and tried to remember what the doctor had said about the dosage. Two now, and two more in two hours if the headache wasn't gone? Gibbs had taken two at 7:00 this morning, and it was certainly more than two hours later. He tossed two back, washing them down with the last of a bottle of water he'd been drinking during the drive down. He peered into the pill bottle: plenty left for the next couple days. Gibbs supposed he'd eventually have to fill the prescription he'd gotten from the hospital, but there was no hurry.

"Look, can't we work this out?" Rosario said as they made their way across the station. "I mean, we didn't mean for him to die."

"Shut up," Gibbs said from behind him. There was no demand in his tone. He caught DiNozzo's eye in the rearview mirror and nodded slightly, getting one in return. Rosario tried to turn in his seat, but with his hands cuffed behind him and his seatbelt snug, he couldn't quite see Gibbs. For a minute or more, there was silence in the car before Rosario spoke again.

"I'm telling you, it was an accident," he said.

"I said, shut up," Gibbs repeated in the same flat tone. DiNozzo leaned slightly sideways to get Ziva in the mirror. He nodded at her and her eyes narrowed for a second before she understood. They'd played this game before.

"You asked for a lawyer, so we can't talk to you," DiNozzo said.

"It is really in your best interest to be quiet," Ziva cautioned him. "You and your friends decided to kill that sailor, and the navy does not forgive premeditated murder."

"We didn't plan to kill him," Rosario objected. "We just wanted to teach him a lesson."

"I won't tell you again, Corporal," Gibbs said. "You need to shut up. You asked for a lawyer. We're not allowed to talk to you. Which is really too bad."

"What do you mean, too bad?" He tried to look around again.

"Sorry. Can't say anything more," Gibbs said.

"What if I change my mind. I can do that, right?"

"Change your mind about what?" Ziva asked.

"Maybe I don't need a lawyer."

"Oh, I think you do," DiNozzo said. "Premeditated murder of an active-duty service member. What's that likely to get him, Officer David?"

"With a good lawyer, perhaps 25 to life. But a hate crime will get special circumstances. It is probable that he will receive the death penalty."

"Death?" Rosario said. His voice cracked. "No way. It wasn't murder. It was an accident. We didn't mean to kill him."

"Do you want to talk to us about it?" Ziva asked.

"Yes."

"Without your lawyer?" DiNozzo asked.

"Yes. If I explain why we did it, you'll understand it was necessary. We really had no choice."

"Alright. Let's make it official," DiNozzo said. He pulled into a parking area and turned in his seat to face the back of the SUV. He left the engine running, the heat on low. "I need to advise you of your rights."

DiNozzo ran through the Article 31s. When he was done, Rosario agreed to waive them. DiNozzo confirmed – on tape – that no one had forced him to change his mind about a lawyer, that he wasn't being coerced, that they hadn't promised him anything in exchange for the waiver. He reminded Rosario that he could again change his mind at any time, ask for a lawyer again, and all questioning would stop. When Gibbs was satisfied their bases were covered, he gave DiNozzo the high sign to proceed.

They asked Rosario to tell his story, and said nothing as he explained the mission: to rid the Navy of the fags that were destroying it. It was important. They had to do it. Didn't the agents understand the damage these people were doing to the armed services? To the country itself? Through it all, Rosario stuck to his story. He'd only been involved in the attack on Ferrara, and they hadn't meant to kill him.

"So you say you had nothing to do with the attack on Master Chief Goetz?" Ziva asked. "Or any of the previous attacks?"

"No, ma'am. I don't know anything about the previous missions. I was only recruited for this last one."

"Do you know who attacked the Master Chief?" she asked.

"Lewiston. Maybe Fazio, I'm not sure. For sure another guy, a sailor named Curren."

"So how'd you get involved?" DiNozzo asked.

"Doc came to me, asked if I wanted to help."

"Petty Officer Lewiston?" DiNozzo clarified.

"Yes."

"Help what?" Ziva asked.

"Help get rid of the fag," Rosario said with a strange look, as if it was obvious. "He was making moves on his bunkmates, freaking everybody out. He had to go."

"Who told you he was making moves?" Ziva asked.

"Doc. He said there'd been complaints."

"Complaints to who?" DiNozzo asked.

Rosario shrugged. "I don't know."

"Why not just turn him in?" DiNozzo asked. "Under DADT, he would have been discharged. Problem solved."

Rosario shook his head. "Doc said he was hands off. Under the Captain's personal protection. There's no way the faggot would have been discharged. He was free to keep infecting other people with his disgusting ideas, unstopped. He was the Captain's personal assistant, for God's sake. No knob jockey deserves that."

"That's enough!" Gibbs suddenly barked from the back seat, making Rosario jump. "The language is unnecessary. We get it."

There was silence in the car for several moments. When DiNozzo continued, his tone was understated.

"Tell us about Ferrara. Exactly what you did."

"Like I said before, Doc had information he was going into Washington. We waited for him at Amtrak. When he showed up, we followed him all night. We couldn't go into those places he was going, so we waited to get him alone. He left the last place with some other… guy… in a taxi. They drove into that neighborhood. We had no idea where he was going. It certainly wasn't anywhere a normal person would want to be in the middle of the night."

"What happened then?" Ziva asked. From the back seat, Gibbs was amazed at the level of Rosario's stupidity. This idiot seemed to have no idea he was giving them everything they needed to put him away for murder.

"The taxi pulled up suddenly," Rosario said. "We were following about a block back, we'd turned our lights out so they wouldn't notice us. Ferrara got out. It left him there. Maybe they'd had a quickie in the backseat. I don't know. He started walking back our way and we saw our chance."

"So?" DiNozzo said. "What'd you do?"

"We waited in the entryway of that abandoned warehouse. When he passed, Fazio called out to him, asked if he had a phone, said there was someone hurt inside. Ferrara was nervous, but Fazio sold it and in the end he did the Boy Scout thing and stepped over, offering his phone. Lewiston hit him with the flash-bang, we dragged him inside, and we took him to school."

"And it never occurred to you that you were killing him?" Ziva asked.

"No. I swear. He was fighting us, hard. I have to give it to him. He might have been a pansy, but he fought like a man. At first, anyway. We beat on him until he stopped fighting, then we left. He was alive when we left. Crying like a little girl."

The agents fell silent again. Without knowing it, each of them was fighting the urge to throttle Rosario right where he sat.

"If Lewiston recruited you, who recruited him?" Gibbs asked from behind Rosario. The Marine again tried to look back, and was again unable. He spoke at Ziva.

"No one," Rosario said. "He was running the mission."

"Really?" Ziva asked.

"Yeah. He put the whole thing together. He knew Ferrara was going ashore on Saturday, told us we could catch him alone, teach him a lesson."

"Lewiston was in charge?" DiNozzo repeated.

"Yeah."

"Of just this one, or of the whole mission?" he asked.

"He's been in charge of the mission all along. The target last spring was his first aboard the Roosevelt, I think." DiNozzo caught Gibbs' eye in the mirror and Ziva turned to look back at him. The three agents silently conversed. That didn't jive with what they already knew. As far as they knew, this 'mission' was born and bred on the Roosevelt. There weren't any known victims among FAST Company, or any other unit Lewiston had served with. Maybe this guy didn't know everything. Gibbs gave his agents a look that said 'run with it.'

"How did he identify the targets?" Ziva asked, turning back to Rosario.

"He's really outgoing. Has lots of friends, sailors and Marines. He'd hear talk, then do some investigating. Sometimes it was just talk, and he didn't approve a mission. But when he was able to confirm it, the target went on the mission list."

"So you're saying Petty Officer Lewiston picked the targets, set up the attacks, then participated in the last two? All despite his PTSD?" DiNozzo asked.

Rosario shrugged again. "It wasn't PTSD. It took him awhile to bounce back, that's all. That IED attack hit us all hard, in different ways. He couldn't be a medic anymore, but it didn't kill him. The mission to remove the Master Chief happened while he was still coming to terms with it. But it came off without a hitch."

"Without a hitch," DiNozzo repeated, for lack of anything better to say.

"They taught him the lesson, he left the ship, he's not corrupting young sailors anymore. Mission accomplished."

Silence fell. DiNozzo and David weren't sure where to take it from here, and waited for a sign from Gibbs.

"Was there anyone else who took a lead role in the mission?" Gibbs asked.

"No. I told you. It was Doc's plan. He recruited the personnel, found the targets, picked the dates, everything."

"No officer calling the shots?"

"Hell no. The officer corps on the Roosevelt has bought into the liberal crap the President is selling. They'd have never authorized this mission. They're useless."

Gibbs filed that away for future reference. If the priest knew McNally – or anyone else on the ship's senior staff – was tolerant of Ferrara being gay, it could change things. The UCMJ didn't specifically address acts of omission by officers who may or may not know their subordinates are gay, but if the right people wanted to make a thing out of it, and they had evidence, it could cause a problem for McNally.

"You have anything else to tell us?" DiNozzo asked when he saw Gibbs was done.

"That's all. Just that we were doing the right thing. I'm sorry he's dead. We didn't mean to kill him. But he should have just resigned when he had the chance."

"Alright." DiNozzo turned back around and put the truck in gear.

"So what happens now?" Rosario asked.

"Now we take you to the brig, and charge you with murder," Gibbs said.

"What? I told you, we didn't mean to kill him! He was alive when we left him."

"And we believe you. But it is still murder," Ziva said. "And we very much appreciate you helping our investigation."

"No, no, no! You can't!" Rosario objected, and started to struggle against the cuffs.

"Calm down, Corporal," Ziva said. When Rosario continued to fight, Ziva grabbed his elbow. She dug her fingers into the pressure point there until Rosario cried out and stopped struggling, leaning away from her.

"I said, calm down, Corporal," Ziva repeated calmly. Rosario froze and she loosened her hold a little. "Better."

"I want a lawyer," he said.

"You should have stuck with that," Gibbs said.

**xxxxxXXXXXxxxxx**

They booked Rosario into the Norfolk brig, ensuring he'd have no communication with anyone other than his lawyer. That done, DiNozzo tried calling Ramey, the sailor who'd had a fight with the priest, but got no answer. Gibbs told DiNozzo to call McGee and have him see what he could do about tracking Ramey down. And to find the third sailor Rosario said had been involved with Master Chief Goetz's assault.

With McGee working on it, the agents headed across the base for a late lunch. Or early dinner, depending on your point of view. In addition to its many mess halls, Norfolk Station featured a good selection of national chain fast food restaurants and one small, family-owned diner. The agents chose the latter.

The table they chose in the nearly-empty diner had a view of Willoughby Bay. Shortly after they sat to eat, DiNozzo noticed a large ship crossing the mouth of the bay and pointed it out. Gibbs checked his watch. Only an hour behind schedule, the carrier group was pulling out.

They took their time eating, watching the ships pass. Gibbs was trying to figure out where to go next. They likely had all they were going to get out of Rosario. It was plenty. They certainly had him dead to rights. His testimony could be used against Fazio and Lewiston, but only if Rosario took the stand at trial. Fazio might give them something more if they pinned it all on Lewiston, but Gibbs wasn't sure he felt like dealing with Fazio's lawyer tonight. Morning would be soon enough. Knowing that Lewiston had been involved in at least two attacks, and according to Rosario was claiming to be running the mission, they might be able to use that to get more out of Radkoff. As far as they knew, he hadn't asked for a lawyer yet, and he might be amenable to another conversation with Ziva.

"I want you to fly back to DC tonight," Gibbs said to her, interrupting a teasing exchange between his agents.

"Okay. Why?" Ziva asked.

"Talk to Radkoff. Use what we got from Rosario, see what else you can get from him."

"Alright. What will you and Tony be doing?"

"Waiting for Lewiston to show up. I might need you back here tomorrow night if we don't find him."

"I understand."

After they finished eating, Gibbs had DiNozzo drive them around to the flight control office. There was no conversation on the way, and in the silence Gibbs again caught Ziva staring at him with that look of guilt in her eyes. He figured now was as good a time as any to deal with it. Gibbs sent DiNozzo inside to see if there was a seat available on a military shuttle back to D.C. After he left, Gibbs caught and held Ziva's eye in the mirror. She didn't look away this time. He waited.

"Well come on," Gibbs said after a silent minute had passed. "You got something to say, say it."

Ziva turned around in her seat. She opened her mouth then shut it again. After another moment, she nodded and spoke.

"I know how you feel about apologies, Gibbs, but I want you to know I am truly sorry for injuring you."

"You didn't know it was me," Gibbs said. "If I'd have been one of them, it would have been the absolute right thing to do."

"I could have killed you," she said, and he thought he heard a tremble in her voice.

"You could have," Gibbs agreed. The muscle in the side of his neck twitched under the bandage. "But you didn't."

"But I did hurt you," she said.

"Yes, you did. It wouldn't have been a big deal if my knee wasn't already damaged."

"It is a big deal. McGee told me you will need surgery." The tremble was clear now.

Gibbs inwardly groaned. He was going to have words with his junior agent. "Ziva, this was not your fault. I made a stupid mistake. I knew you were blind and deaf, and I came at you out of nowhere. I'm probably lucky to have survived it."

Ziva cleared her throat. "You fight very well," she said with a small smile. "I have seen you subdue suspects, and I often wondered how well I would do against you in a true fight. But I think it is likely you were holding back."

"I knew it was you," Gibbs said. "And I don't wonder anymore."

"How long will you be off work, once you have the surgery?" Ziva asked. Gibbs shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. This thing is going to come together in the next couple of days, and I need your head in the game, not worrying about my knee."

Ziva gave a small sigh. "I understand."

"Good. Go back to DC tonight, talk to Radkoff in the morning," Gibbs said. "We need names to make the link from Hutchinson to Brisbin to Goetz. Can you get them?"

"I will do my best," Ziva said.

"Make sure it's good enough," Gibbs said. That ought to keep her occupied.

DiNozzo returned with the news that there were no seats available tonight. Navy brass of all ranks had come to Norfolk from D.C. for the Roosevelt's departure, and most of them were heading back tonight. Knowing this was not going to go over well with the bean counters at headquarters, Gibbs told Ziva to take a commercial flight.

After dropping her at the airport, Gibbs called McGee again. There had been no sighting of Lewiston or Fazio's car, no further use of Lewiston's debit card. The BOLO had been expanded to the entire Eastern Seaboard, and inland to include Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and the Carolinas. He'd turn up eventually, Gibbs had no doubt. But the delay was frustrating.

The sailor Rosario told them was involved with the attack on Goetz was another dead end. Literally. His enlistment had come to an end shortly after Goetz's attack, and he'd declined to reup. Less than two months later, he died after wrapping his new sports car around a telephone pole. Drunk driving, the coroner had concluded.

"Abby pulled his DNA profile. She got a positive match for one of the samples collected from Master Chief Goetz."

"How'd she get it?" Gibbs asked.

"The profiles are only restricted until death."

Gibbs nodded to himself. That made sense since the reason for taking the DNA of service members was to identify remains.

"Have her pull the profile from the guy who went with Radkoff."

"To see if we can make a match with any of the other suspects, get them off our list," McGee said. "I'll tell her."

As for Ramey, McGee reported he still wasn't answering his cell. It had no GPS, but McGee had tracked his outgoing calls to towers in the Washington Metro area.

"He's in Washington?" Gibbs asked.

"He was earlier today. He hasn't made a call in a couple hours, so I don't know if he's here now. I did a little off-the-record digging. He's booked on a flight out of Dulles Monday evening."

"Where's he going?"

"A ski resort north of Montreal. For a week."

"We need to talk to him before he leaves," Gibbs said.

McGee asked how hard Gibbs wanted him to go on it: Did Gibbs want him to grab a couple agents and go pound some pavement? Or just continue trying to trace him remotely? Did he want Ramey to know NCIS was looking for him at all? It's not like he was a suspect, but if he did know something, and someone had mentioned to him that they were working this investigation, he might run if he knew they were looking for him.

Knowing they had nothing that would support setting up a surveillance net, Gibbs told McGee to keep doing what he could to make contact with the sailor. If he managed it, McGee should make up some reason why Ramey needed to meet with them as soon as possible, wherever they could arrange it.

Though it was barely 5:00, Gibbs was tired. It had been a long day. The second dose of Ducky's pills hadn't quieted the pain like the previous ones had, and Gibbs wondered if he'd done more damage to his knee with the run across the gym. He told DiNozzo to find them someplace to stay for the night. He needed to lay down. For a long time.

* * *

to be continued...

Keep those reviews coming, friends. I hang on your every word. joy


	41. Part 38

**One Less - Part 38**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

With the families and friends of a couple thousand sailors and Marines in town for the shove-off, every hotel DiNozzo called was full. It took him 20 minutes to find them a room at any price, and that hotel only had one. That would be fine, Gibbs told him. They'd shared quarters before.

The room they got was large and well-appointed, with two queen-sized beds, a small table and chairs in one corner, and a separate sitting area with a couch and an easy chair facing a good-sized wall-mounted television in another corner. Gibbs couldn't have cared less. Anything more than clean sheets was just gravy. He dropped onto the first bed he came to. He struggled out of his jacket, tossing it in the general direction of where Tony had set the bags. Removing his holstered sidearm from his belt, he set it on the nightstand between the beds, then fell sideways onto the mattress. He lay there for a second, then with what looked like a monumental effort pulled his legs up onto the bed and rolled onto his back. He let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes.

Without asking or being asked, DiNozzo leaned over the bed and undid Gibbs' boot, then took the shoe off. He set them both on the floor as Gibbs grunted something that might have been a thank you. DiNozzo smiled to himself.

"You need anything else, Boss?" he asked when he straightened. Gibbs waved him off without opening his eyes. DiNozzo watched him for a few seconds.

"I'm gonna go out for a while. Call me if something comes up."

Gibbs slept hard, and did not dream at first. He came only partly awake when DiNozzo returned some unknown time later. His subconscious recognized the younger man and he merely rolled part way over and dropped back to sleep. DiNozzo moved quietly through the room, putting away the things he'd bought and securing his weapon in his overnight bag. He took a quick shower and changed into sweats and a t-shirt. It was still early, so DiNozzo dug out his laptop and a pair of headphones, sat on the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table, and started a movie.

He was almost through the Alfred Hitchcock classic 'Vertigo' when DiNozzo heard a muffled cry that definitely wasn't part of the soundtrack. He frowned, looking past the screen into the complete darkness of the room. His eyes were adjusted to the island of light coming from the laptop and he couldn't see a thing. DiNozzo pulled off the headphones and for a few seconds there was silence. Then, from the direction of Gibbs' bed, another cry. A name. Nicky. Tony quickly set the laptop aside and groped for the lamp on the end table.

The light revealed Gibbs lying mostly on his stomach with his face turned toward the space between the beds. His left arm was under his head, his right hand reaching across the bed. As Tony watched, Gibbs' hand opened and closed, the fingers tightening around something unseen.

"Nicky! We're coming!" Gibbs cried out, his voice clear. His good leg suddenly jerked as if he'd stopped himself from falling. His face showed something Tony had rarely seen there in the eight years he'd worked with the man: fear.

"Gibbs?" DiNozzo called softly. Gibbs flipped over hard onto his back, his legs tangling together, and he cried out again. "Nicky!"

"Wake up!" DiNozzo spoke louder this time.

Gibbs instantly fell silent and before Tony could comprehend what he was doing, the older man pushed himself toward the nightstand and his holstered Sig. He got his hand on the weapon and was bringing it toward himself when Tony grabbed his wrist.

"Gibbs, Wake up!" DiNozzo shouted as Gibbs began to struggle against Tony's grip. Tony grabbed the top of the holster with his other hand, wrapping his palm over the safety strap and hanging on. He didn't know what would happen if Gibbs managed to get the weapon unholstered, but he didn't want to find out.

"Boss!" DiNozzo shouted again, and this time, he got through. Gibbs stilled. His eyes fully opened, focused on the ceiling, then he looked over at where Tony was holding him. There was a split second of confusion while Gibbs' eyes tracked to the end of his hand, then Gibbs' hand shot open. Tony instantly released him, yanking the gun away. Gibbs put both hands over his face, breathing fast.

DiNozzo set the gun on the other bed and moved to pick a bottle of water out of the supplies he'd bought earlier. On the bed, Gibbs struggled to sit up. He slid his legs off the bed and leaned on his elbows.

"Water?" DiNozzo asked casually, offering the bottle. Gibbs took it and drank half in one go. He took a few deep, gasping breaths, then drank the rest. DiNozzo sat on the edge of his own bed, watching as Gibbs set the empty bottle aside and worked to get his breathing under control.

"Thanks," Gibbs said when he could speak again.

"You're welcome," DiNozzo said solemnly. While Gibbs could and did show his appreciation in many subtle ways, DiNozzo knew he really meant it when he used his words.

Gibbs gestured to where the crutches were resting against the wall. DiNozzo handed them over. Gibbs levered himself upright and hobbled over to the bathroom.

DiNozzo's voice had startled Gibbs out of another nightmare. He'd been lost somewhere in his head and when a voice he didn't recognize in his haze shouted at him, the only thought was defense. He'd reached for his Sig without thought and had fought the hand on his wrist like his life depended on it. But only for a second. Tony's call of 'Boss' had made the dream dissolve instantly.

Gibbs leaned on his crutches and stared at his reflection over the sink. What the hell was wrong with him? And how was he going to explain it to DiNozzo when he didn't understand it himself?

He glanced at his watch. Just past 10:00. He'd fallen into the bed sometime before 6:00. So, four hours. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Gibbs set the left crutch aside and leaned wholly on the right one. He grabbed a washcloth off the rack next to him and soaked it in the sink. Wringing it out with one hand, he wiped his face and the back of his neck with coolness, careful to avoid the bandage.

There was little doubt in his mind now that the dreams were connected to Nicky. Gibbs didn't understand how the retired Marine had managed to get so far into his subconscious that he was starring in Gibbs' nightmares, but the fact of it was undisputable. He wondered how long this was likely to go on.

When Nicky had first appeared in his nightmares, Gibbs figured it was because Nicky was at risk. But he wasn't anymore. He was safely ensconced at Gregor's house. Two of the bastards who'd killed Ferrara were in custody, and the third had other things to worry about. Besides, Lewiston had no frame of reference to know to look for Gregor's house, much less any way to find it. Nicky was not in danger, and Gibbs couldn't imagine why his subconscious was telling him otherwise.

Out in the room, DiNozzo turned on a few more lights, then sat on the couch and tried to calm his racing heart. Gibbs had scared the hell out of him. Grabbing for the gun like that. That could have ended very badly. Even if Tony hadn't gotten himself shot, it was never easy to explain random shots and bullet holes to the locals.

And what about the absurdity of Gibbs having a nightmare? Tony occasionally suffered from nightmares himself. With the work they did, it was almost inevitable. But he'd never figured Gibbs for them. The boss was so self-assured, so confident in his decisions and his actions, he'd never thought Gibbs would have the kind of doubts that tortured a subconscious while the body slept. At least not without a damn good reason. Like Kate. Her death had been a good reason for nightmares. Tony knew that Gibbs had gone months without a good night's sleep after that. He'd been like a bear with a sore head, grumping at everyone. They all had. But beyond that, Tony couldn't imagine a night terror that would put fear on Gibbs' face. Of course, with what little Gibbs had shared of the life he'd lived, Tony supposed he wouldn't necessarily know.

The bathroom door opened and Gibbs came out. He swung over to the one of the easy chairs and lowered himself carefully into it, moving his foot up onto the coffee table. He set the crutches aside and rubbed at his right wrist where DiNozzo had grabbed him. Tony's eyes widened at the four parallel red marks that were coming up. Those were going to bruise. Gibbs had certainly suffered at the hands of his team during this case.

"You alright?" DiNozzo asked.

"Yeah. You got any more water?" DiNozzo nodded and got up to get another bottle.

"My jacket," Gibbs said, and DiNozzo grabbed that too, before bringing both to him. Gibbs pulled the pill bottle out of his jacket pocket, looked at it. He couldn't read the label. He had his glasses, but he wasn't in the mood.

"Is this a narcotic?" he asked DiNozzo, holding the bottle out. Tony took it and examined the small print. The prescription was made out to Gibbs, prescribed by Ducky, seven months before. Tony wondered why – if Gibbs had had the pills that long – he didn't know what they were. On the other hand, it wouldn't surprise him if Ducky had prescribed the pills months ago as a matter of course and held them for just such an occasion as this. That's just the kind of relationship the boss and the doctor had.

"It's Vicodin." He handed the bottle back and took his seat again.

Gibbs sighed. His knee was hurting, but not badly. The dose he'd taken in the truck on the way to book Rosario had tamped down the worst of the pain. The knee was probably just swollen from when he put weight on it. He could take more drugs, but it wouldn't be for pain. It would be so he could sleep. Without dreams. Which was exactly what he'd denied doing when he'd talked to Gelfand, what, 48 hours ago? Probably not a good option.

Gibbs put the pills back in his pocket and set the jacket aside. He uncapped the water and took a swig. He could feel DiNozzo's eyes on him. Waiting for an explanation, Gibbs figured. What the hell was he supposed to say?

Tony stepped into the opening. "Where is Nicky?" he asked.

"At Gregor's house."

"From the BX?"

Gibbs nodded and drank more water.

"So he's secure," DiNozzo said.

"Far as I know," Gibbs said. "No reason he wouldn't be."

"You want me to check? Call him?"

"No," Gibbs said.

More silence. Then: "I don't know why I'm dreaming about him."

"Is this the first time?" DiNozzo asked.

"Couple'a nights." He took another pull from the bottle.

"Your gut trying to tell you something?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Don't know."

"McGee said you'd been looking a little run down, all week. He said you were late two days in a row. Because of this?"

"You guys talk about me a lot?" Gibbs growled.

DiNozzo grinned at him. "The probie worries, Boss." He paused. "Me, too."

Gibbs had no immediate answer for that. He again considered the pills. They'd helped put him out already a couple of times, quite unintentionally. But could he use them to put himself out on purpose? To be certain he'd get the effect he wanted, he'd have to take more than Ducky's recommended dose. Gibbs knew fooling around with narcotics was never a good idea. Better to stick with something he knew.

"This room got a mini-bar?" Gibbs asked. DiNozzo nodded. He got up and pulled open the small fridge beside the dresser. He examined the racks of shot bottles sealed in the door.

"There's four bottles of Jack in here," he reported. "Eight bucks a piece."

Gibbs did some mental math. He was six feet tall, 180 give or take, it had been at least five hours since he last ate. Two shots back to back ought to mellow him out enough to put him to sleep without making him drunk.

"Bring two. For me."

DiNozzo nodded and broke the seal, grabbing the bottles. He brought them over.

"I need ice," Gibbs said as he twisted the top off one of the shot-sized bottles. DiNozzo was surprised. He'd never known Gibbs to take his booze any way but straight.

"In a glass?" he asked.

"In a towel," Gibbs said, and DiNozzo almost laughed.

"Got it. Be right back." He picked up the room keycard and an ice bucket and stepped out.

Gibbs threw back the first shot. It was rare for him to drink while he was out of town on a case. But he figured the risk was low: They weren't actually looking for Lewiston tonight, which meant if he showed up, it would be voluntarily. It wasn't like they'd be chasing him down or having to fight it out with him. Besides, he trusted DiNozzo to watch his back if they did have to go somewhere. It was more important that he get some sleep, so when they did find Lewiston, Gibbs would be ready to work him. And given the choice, the booze was better than the drugs.

DiNozzo returned with the ice bucket. He made an ice pack out of one of the bath towels, bringing it and a stack of hand towels back into the living room. He then stood by while Gibbs wriggled out of his khakis and examined the brace. It would have to come off so the ice could do its thing.

"I got it, Boss," DiNozzo said. He knelt in front of Gibbs and worked the Velcro straps. He peeled back the sides of the brace and his eyes widened.

"Geez, she really did a number on you," DiNozzo said. The knee was swollen, not as badly as right after the injury, but still bad. The bruising had solidified into a single patch of dark purple about five inches wide by ten inches long down the outside of his knee.

"Just give me the ice," Gibbs grumbled. DiNozzo handed him the ice bundle and Gibbs balanced it between the injured side of his knee and the open brace. He wrapped one of the straps back around the brace and the bundle, sticking it to the other side. It held. DiNozzo put the stack of hand towels on the floor under Gibbs' knee to catch the melting water.

Gibbs leaned back in the chair and opened the second bottle, sipping at it. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

"He's been on my mind," Gibbs said. DiNozzo got a water bottle of his own and returned to the couch.

"Nicky?" DiNozzo wasn't sure where this was going, but as usual, he'd follow Gibbs' lead.

"Yeah." When Gibbs didn't continue, DiNozzo did.

"You worried about him?"

"Not really," Gibbs said. "Not anymore."

"What then?" DiNozzo asked.

Gibbs took another sip of the shot without opening his eyes. "He grew up in Hanson, Kentucky. Population 580. Rural town, one stop light, one grocery store, half a dozen churches. Haven't had a fatal traffic accident since 1996. Sound like somewhere we've been lately?"

"Sounds a lot like Stillwater," DiNozzo said. They'd travelled to Gibbs' hometown on a case last fall. It had been an eye-opener, for dang sure.

"He joined the Marines right out high school. Planned to make it his career. Got injured in a mortar blast, retired on disability. Awarded a Silver Star for running in when he should have run out."

"Sounds a lot like you, Boss," DiNozzo said. He opened the bottle of water and took a couple swallows.

"He was me. About 10 years later." The two men fell silent. Gibbs adjusted the ice pack.

"Makes you wonder how come you made it and he didn't. Especially after your family..." DiNozzo stuttered to a stop.

Gibbs opened his eyes and swung his gaze to his second. "Makes you wonder," Gibbs agreed after a moment. He drained the rest of the small bottle and set it aside.

"Ducky would want me to tell you about genetic susceptibility to mental illness, socio-economic factors leading to addiction, the statistics on returning veterans and post-traumatic stress disorder..."

Gibbs waved him off. "I know the statistics," he said.

"You obviously beat the odds. Then again, you were probably just too damn stubborn to let it get to you."

Gibbs grunted. DiNozzo had no idea how bad it had been. How many times, after losing his family and losing the Corps, he'd nearly given up. He'd fought addiction, fought depression, fought a complete lack of desire to keep living. But in the end, he'd won every fight. Gibbs knew that joining NCIS had played a major role in his survival. If he hadn't had that, if he hadn't been able to lose himself in the work, he really didn't know what might have happened. With Nicky's far more debilitating injuries, that option wouldn't have been available to him. Which may alone have been the root of their different outcomes.

"I got lucky," Gibbs said finally. "I got through it."

"You think there's still hope for Nicky?" DiNozzo asked. He drank more water.

"There's always hope, Tony. He's a survivor. He'll be fine."

"If you believe that, why are you having nightmares about him?"

Gibbs silently granted him the point, but said nothing. Gibbs could feel the alcohol doing its thing, fuzzing his head and making his blood slow down. It wouldn't be long before the fog settled, he knew. He pushed himself into a more comfortable position in the easy chair and relaxed his big muscles, letting his eyes close. It wasn't bad, for hotel furniture.

He was drifting away when DiNozzo spoke again an unknown time later. "You going back to bed?"

"Nah. I'll sleep here for awhile," Gibbs mumbled.

DiNozzo nodded and got up. He went to his bed and picked up Gibbs' still-holstered sidearm.

"I think I'll put this away," he said. Gibbs cracked open an eye and saw what he was referring to.

"Not up for another round?" Gibbs asked.

"Not in the mood to explain random bullet holes," DiNozzo said and shoved the gun into the top of Gibbs' overnight bag. "Especially not in me."

Gibbs chuckled. He took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh, and felt himself skirting the edge of darkness. "You got the watch?" he asked. Or at least he thought he asked.

"On your six, Boss." DiNozzo's voice came from far away. Gibbs let himself drift away.

* * *

to be continued...

I'm about two (in-story) days ahead of you, dear readers, and I've been there for weeks. I know where I want to go, but I'm not sure how to get there. It's a struggle, but your words are encouraging. Please keep leaving reviews, even if it's just to say "I'm here, and I like it." I appreciate every word. joy


	42. Part 39

**One Less - Part 39**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Again, it was the smell of coffee that woke Gibbs. For a moment, that's all that registered. Someone was brewing good coffee. Then his body checked in. Oww. He was too old to be sleeping in chairs.

Gibbs opened his eyes and stretched his arms up over his head. His neck and shoulders were stiff. He flexed his hips, curving his back forward, and froze as the bruised muscles in his low back spasmed. Damn. He was definitely too old to be sleeping in chairs.

"Good morning." Gibbs looked up. DiNozzo was just coming out of the bathroom in his boxers, a towel draped over his bare shoulders.

Gibbs tried to answer. But his mouth was stuffed with cotton, and all that came out was a mumble.

"Coffee?" DiNozzo asked. He poured a mug full and brought it over. Gibbs took it gratefully. He took a gulp, swishing it around in his mouth.

"Mine?" Gibbs asked, his voice a little clearer. He always kept some of his grind in his go-bag. He couldn't stand hotel coffee. Even the so-called 'gourmet' stuff.

"I figured you wouldn't mind," DiNozzo grinned.

"Hmm," Gibbs said through another gulp. DiNozzo used the towel to rub rapidly at his head, then dumped it on his bed. His hair was sticking up in all directions.

"You gonna need to get up soon?" DiNozzo asked. Which was the point at which Gibbs realized he really had to get up.

"Yeah. Now."

DiNozzo came over and pulled the wet towel off Gibbs' leg. The ice had melted hours ago, soaking the brace, his leg, and the pile of towels on the floor.

"There's a blow dryer in the bathroom you can use to dry it," DiNozzo suggested. He reattached the straps and handed Gibbs the crutches. Gibbs put the coffee mug down and stood. A strong head rush blacked out his vision for a second and made him sway. He managed not to groan. It cleared after a moment and he hobbled to the bathroom.

A phone rang in the room. Gibbs heard DiNozzo talking, caught the pleased tone of his voice, and leaned out of the bathroom.

"Nicely done, McEarlyriser. Take the rest of the morning off." DiNozzo hung up and turned to Gibbs.

"Lewiston showed up."

"Where?"

"He's at DePaul Medical Center in Norfolk. With his lawyer."

Lot of that going around, Gibbs thought with an internal growl. DiNozzo continued.

"McGee says he came in last night. Gunshot wound to the left thigh. The ER called Norfolk PD to report the GSW. They sent an officer, but the lawyer wouldn't let them talk to him. McGee had some kind of snooper thing in NPD's computer that alerted him when the officer called in his report at shift change this morning."

"Did they arrest him?"

"Not yet. Getting shot isn't illegal. Once McGee told them he was ours, they agreed to hold him until we got there."

"Good. This place have a restaurant?" Gibbs asked.

"Yup," DiNozzo said.

"We'll go down after we eat." He returned to the bathroom.

The ortho doc at Bethesda had been right: The brace did not smell good wet. Gibbs sat on the toilet lid and unstrapped it again. The swelling had gone down, but the pain was still present. Nagging, not sharp. Nothing he couldn't tolerate.

Gibbs rubbed one of the hotel's complimentary soap bars over the wet parts of the brace before doing as DiNozzo suggested and using the hotel's blow dryer on it. Cherry almond wasn't really his scent, but it was better than wet canvas.

That done, he finished cleaning up. The gauze bandage over the stitches on his neck was turning gray, so he replaced it with a large band-aid from his kit. The shallower cut was healing nicely. It probably wouldn't scar. Gibbs couldn't say the same for the larger one. Another to add to his plentiful collection.

When both agents were dressed and ready, they went to breakfast in the hotel restaurant. They didn't hurry: DiNozzo had called Norfolk PD and confirmed Lewiston wasn't going anywhere. Gibbs had three more cups of coffee and was feeling pretty good by the time they got to DePaul two hours after McGee's call. Gibbs had slept through the night without further disturbance, and the effects of the shots had been minor. He hadn't even thought it necessary to take any more Vicodin.

A Norfolk Police officer was sitting in a chair across from the suspect's room in the ER when they arrived just before 10:00. Gibbs leaned on his crutches and spoke with the officer briefly. It was as McGee had told them: They'd gotten a call from the ER about a gunshot victim, but it had taken more than an hour to get an officer available to talk to him. Then, the lawyer had refused the officer access. They'd decided to sit on him until they could rule out his involvement in any of the multiple shooting incidents that had occurred overnight in the tri-state area. They hadn't yet made it to the NCIS 'Be on the Lookout' request Ziva had called in when McGee called their dispatch.

DiNozzo showed the officer a picture of Lewiston he'd downloaded from the sailor's service file. The officer confirmed that was who he was holding, then agreed to transfer him to NCIS' custody. He offered to stick around and help, but Gibbs waved him away. With a handshake, he left them.

Gibbs stepped through the doorway into the small room. The second man from Nicky's warehouse was lying flat on the gurney, his left leg elevated on a stack of pillows. A fresh bandage was showing below his boxers, ending just above his knee. An IV in his left arm was flowing clear fluids, and a heart and blood pressure monitor was attached to his right bicep. His eyes were closed and he looked almost as pale as the sheets he was lying on. Blood loss, Gibbs figured.

"Can I help you?" This from an older man sitting in a chair on the far side of the bed.

"NCIS," DiNozzo said, and showed his badge. "Who are you?"

On the bed, Lewiston stirred and his eyelids fluttered. He opened his eyes and raised his head off the bed to see who had come in. He looked at DiNozzo without response. But when his eyes met Gibbs', they widened with instant recognition.

"Peter Benedetto. I'm this man's attorney, and he's not answering any questions."

"We're not here to ask him any," Gibbs said.

"He's under arrest," DiNozzo said and pulled out his cuffs.

"For what?" Benedetto demanded. He stood up, putting himself between the agents and the bed. He wasn't a tall man, shorter than either of them by several inches. Gibbs watched him straighten his posture to try and make up for it.

"Impersonating a federal agent, assault on a federal agent, conspiracy, illegal use of an explosive device, witness intimidation, interstate flight to avoid prosecution… I miss anything Boss?" DiNozzo asked.

"Don't forget murder," Gibbs said.

"Oh yeah, and murder," DiNozzo finished up. He moved forward, forcing Benedetto to take a step back.

"Murder?" the lawyer said, and turned to glance at Lewiston.

"He didn't mention that?" DiNozzo asked. He quickly sidestepped Benedetto to move around to the far side of the bed. "Don't you hate it when that happens?"

"My client is injured," Benedetto objected as DiNozzo snapped a cuff around Lewiston's right wrist.

"This won't hurt him," DiNozzo said. He secured the other cuff to the bed rail. "As soon as he's released from the hospital, he'll be formally charged." He tugged on the cuffs to be sure they were secure, then returned to stand next to Gibbs.

"He's going to be admitted," Benedetto said.

"That's fine. It'll give him some time to think about what he's going to say to us," DiNozzo said.

"He's not answering any questions," Benedetto repeated.

"We're still not asking any," Gibbs said. "But he might want to reconsider."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Because we've got Fazio and we've got Rosario, and they're blaming it all on you," DiNozzo said. "Besides, first one to spill always gets the best deal."

"What do you mean?" Lewiston spoke up for the first time.

"Quiet, Danny," the lawyer said without turning to look at him.

"No, I want to know what he means," Lewiston said. He reached over to push a button on the bedrail, and the top of the bed slowly rose. "What kind of deal?"

DiNozzo shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, your lawyer says we can't talk to you."

"Danny, don't say anything," Benedetto said. "They're just trying to get you to incriminate yourself."

"I want to know what they're offering," Lewiston insisted.

"I demand that you leave this room, immediately," Benedetto said to the agents.

"Doesn't sound like that's what your client wants," DiNozzo said.

"My client is under the influence of narcotic pain medication. He's not capable of protecting his own interests right now. Leave."

If that was true, and Gibbs supposed it might be, they couldn't go any further. He twitched his head slightly toward the door.

"Think about it, Petty Officer Lewiston," DiNozzo said as he turned to follow Gibbs out. "Based on what Rosario and Fazio have told us, they'll get a slap on the wrist and you'll go down for capital murder. If you've got a different version of events, we'd love to hear it."

"Leave!" Benedetto said.

Outside the small room, Gibbs sat in the chair the Norfolk officer had abandoned.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said.

"Go find out if what the lawyer said about pain meds is true, and if he's really going to be admitted. On it, Boss," DiNozzo said. Gibbs nodded his agreement and DiNozzo headed for the nurse's station.

Alone in the hallway, Gibbs listened to the room across the hall, trying to get a read on what was going on inside. He couldn't hear words, but the tone was tense. The lawyer and his client were clearly on opposite sides of the issue they were discussing.

Gibbs really wanted access to this guy. Lewiston couldn't possibly have been in charge of the conspiracy, but Rosario had said the attack on Ferrara had been Lewiston's idea. Putting two and two together, it was clear Lewiston had recruited Rosario, maybe Fazio as well. Which means he might be the only one of the three who had first-hand knowledge of the conspiracy, and who was running it.

From the information he'd gotten from Rosario, the circumstantial evidence they had, and Gibbs' interview with Fazio, there was no doubt in Gibbs' mind that Fazio had been involved in Ferrara's death. But they had no concrete evidence on him other than Abby's expert opinion that he'd left his boot prints in the warehouse. If he could get past Fazio's lawyer, he could probably use Rosario's statements to get more out of Fazio. Like how big a role Lewiston had actually played, and whether or not Fazio knew about the priest's involvement.

As for Rosario, they had him dead to rights, assuming they could hang on to the confession. Gibbs was pretty sure they'd done everything right on that one, but you never knew with lawyers.

The DNA matches they'd made between the sample under Ferrara's nails, the blood from the warehouse and the samples from Lewiston's house would go a long way toward convicting Lewiston, even if Gibbs couldn't get him to confess. But Gibbs wanted him to talk, to give him what he needed to nail the priest. And for that, he needed access.

Hearing Tony's footsteps coming toward him, Gibbs glanced up again. He felt a split-second stab of jealousy at his second's easy, pain-free stride. The younger man moved without thinking, without aches or pains or any of the consequences of a life hard-lived that Gibbs dealt with every day. It had been years since Gibbs was free to just get up and go, without reminders of what he'd put his body through. Considering the career they were in, Gibbs had no doubt DiNozzo would eventually start feeling his age. But you couldn't tell that today.

"What?" DiNozzo asked, catching Gibbs' stare. Gibbs cleared his expression.

"What'd they say?"

"He had a couple shots of morphine, and they're going to admit him. He didn't remove the slug, and the wound is infected."

Damn. This was going to complicate things. He was certain this upscale civilian hospital didn't have a secure unit. So they'd have to put a guard on him, make sure he didn't slip away again. It would be so much easier for them on so many levels if Lewiston was at a military hospital, which is probably why the lawyer had chosen to bring him to this one.

The answer came to him on the heels of that thought. Lewiston was supposed to have reported aboard the Roosevelt yesterday. When he didn't show up before shove-off, he would have officially been reported AWOL. Since he was government property, if the MPs found him they could take him into custody and he'd be transferred to a navy hospital. Especially if Gibbs called in a favor. If Gibbs could plant the right words in the right ears, he could have Lewiston picked up here and taken to the nearest naval hospital, where Gibbs would have a hell of a lot more access to him. Hell, he might even be able to get him transferred to Bethesda, if he could get Gelfand to help.

Gibbs opened his phone and called the Master at Arms at Norfolk. DiNozzo listened with growing pleasure as Gibbs explained there was an AWOL sailor at DePaul Hospital, and then told him – off the record – why Lewiston needed to be picked up and transferred to Portsmouth as soon as possible. The Master at Arms agreed to arrange it as soon as he could.

The voices in the room rose and fell, and finally fell silent after almost half an hour. DiNozzo had gone for more coffee and another chair, and they waited impatiently. Gibbs called McGee – who despite Tony's grant had not taken the morning off – and got him working on a warrant for Lewiston's medical records. The slug had been removed and saved, standard procedure for any hospital, and they wouldn't need a warrant for that. But civilian medical records were tightly held.

Almost an hour passed before the lawyer came out of the room. He was clearly surprised to see them.

"Why are you still here?" he demanded.

"We like it here," DiNozzo said. He waved his cup at the lawyer. "Good coffee."

"You can't question my client," Benedetto said.

"Yeah, yeah," DiNozzo said. "Whatever." Gibbs glanced over at him. Whatever?

"If you so much as ask him how he's feeling, I will have you up on charges," the lawyer warned.

"You don't represent service members much, do you?" Gibbs said. Benedetto frowned.

"I can't see where that's any of your business," the lawyer said.

"I didn't think so," DiNozzo said. "You might want to check your law before you go threatening federal agents. As agents of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, we can ask members of the navy and Marine Corps a whole lot of questions before any line is crossed."

The lawyer stared at him. He was fumbling for a response to that.

"He is represented by counsel, and you may not question him about any crime you suspect he committed outside the presence of counsel."

"So we can question him about crimes you were there to see him commit?" DiNozzo asked. When Benedetto gave him a confused look, DiNozzo gave him a big grin. "Grammar. It's an art."

"Just stay away from him," the lawyer said shortly. "I have another appointment I have to get to. He is under the influence of narcotics, which I'm sure you've confirmed by now, and he is unable to intelligently consent to waive his Fifth Amendment rights. So don't even try."

The lawyer strode down the hall away from them.

"Love those lawyers," DiNozzo said as he watched Benedetto turn the corner out of their sight.

"He's got good timing," Gibbs said.

"Oh?" DiNozzo asked, and Gibbs gestured behind DiNozzo in the opposite direction from where the lawyer had gone. DiNozzo turned that way to see two men in blue NWUs approaching the nursing station down the hall. They had MP bands on their upper arms.

"Very good timing," DiNozzo agreed.

The MPs took Lewiston into custody for violating his order to deploy, and arranged to have him transferred to a secure unit at Portsmouth Hospital. Once his need for medical monitoring had decreased, they'd be able to move him somewhere closer to the Navy Yard. The emergency room doctor who'd been treating Lewiston agreed to sign off on the transfer, as long as the move was made by ambulance with medics aboard. The MPs already had one on the way. Lewiston was strangely ambivalent about the whole thing: He didn't object when the MPs appeared in his room and told him he was being transferred. He only asked if he could call his family before they took him. The senior officer agreed.

Gibbs and DiNozzo waited until Lewiston was loaded into the ambulance, in case the lawyer reappeared and threw a fit. It wasn't that Gibbs didn't think the MPs could take him, it was just that he didn't want them to decide the hassle wasn't worth it. When Lewiston got to Portsmouth, the legal coordinator there would make sure his lawyer was notified.

"So what now, Boss?" DiNozzo asked after Lewiston was on his way.

"Home," Gibbs said. "Rosario's given us all he has, and there's nothing more we can do with Lewiston until he's off pain meds. Even if we could get around the lawyer. No reason to stay here."

**xxxxxXXXXXxxxxx**

Ziva called when they were an hour out of Norfolk. Gibbs had tried to reach her earlier and gotten only voicemail. He was once again stretched out on the back row seat.

"Radkoff said Lewiston was not in charge," Ziva said.

"Who's he say was?" Gibbs asked.

"He still claims not to know. But Radkoff says he knew Lewiston when he was involved, and Lewiston was definitely not one of the conspirators at that time."

"You get any other names?"

"Two," Ziva said, with a hint of pride in her voice. "It took some convincing, but he finally gave me the name of the friend he recruited for the attack on Lt. Hutchinson, and the other sailor who participated. He said those were the only two involved. One is aboard the USS George Washington. The other is an Information Systems Technician Second Class currently assigned to Naval Support Activity Mid-South in Tennessee."

"What'd you have to give him?"

"A few smiles. Some hair flips. I put on a bit of a show."

Gibbs smiled internally. "Run the paper. See if those names work with what we know. And check the duty schedule for the guy at Mid-South, find out when he's due to work. We'll be back in a couple hours."

"I will meet you there." Gibbs was lowering the phone to close it when he heard her voice again.

"What?" he asked her to repeat.

"Can you tell me why there is a Navy Base in the middle of the country? Nine hundred miles from the ocean?"

"It's only 400 from the Gulf of Mexico," Gibbs replied, just because, and this time he did hang up.

"Radkoff gave her the names of two he says attacked Hutchinson," Gibbs told DiNozzo.

"Can we get them?"

"One's on the George Washington," Gibbs said, knowing DiNozzo would understand that meant the sailor was aboard the only permanently forward deployed aircraft carrier in the fleet, and out of reach for the moment. "The other's in Tennessee."

"What's he doing there?"

"He's an IT at NSA Mid-South."

"We have a base in Tennessee?"

Gibbs gave him a look in the rear view. "You've been with the navy eight years, DiNozzo. I'd expect that from Ziva."

"Hey, I can name every naval base and air station on the eastern seaboard. It's not like we've spent a lot of time anywhere else in the last eight years."

"Used to be NAS Memphis. Now it's a logistics and administration facility." Mid-South was one of only two bases the navy had in completely landlocked states. The other one, NAS Fallon in Nevada, was a natural location for a Naval Air Station, being as it was in the middle of thousands of miles of absolutely nothing. Mid-South didn't even have that going for it. Gibbs had wondered, when he first learned of its existence, how much graft had changed hands generations ago to put a navy base so far inland.

"So, we gonna bring him here?"

"If it works with what we know, the two of you can fly out there and talk to him tomorrow."

"Great," DiNozzo said. "I haven't been to Memphis in years."

They stopped for lunch in Richmond and arrived at the Navy Yard just past 4:30. Ziva was sitting at her desk in the Sunday-quiet squadroom. She was wearing a low-cut blouse and tight slacks. Definitely not work fare, but it had probably done wonders for Radkoff. Tony growled at her in admiration as they walked in.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs barked, and Tony jumped.

"Got it, Boss," he said then smacked himself in the back of the head. Ziva smirked at him.

"Thank you," Ziva said to Gibbs. When he was sitting at his desk, she put up the SRBs of the two sailors Radkoff had named, detailing their backgrounds. As Gibbs stared at their pictures, most of what Ziva was saying rolled off him, except to note that neither of them had a record of discipline problems, and they were both Catholic. She'd found nothing that would preclude them from being involved.

Ziva also reported that Abby had found no additional DNA matches between the sailor who had attacked Petty Officer Demmings and subsequently been killed and any other samples they had. That would have been too easy, Gibbs figured. On the other hand, it would have meant one less to bring to justice. And justice was definitely the desired end result in this thing.

When Ziva was finished her update, Gibbs told her to make arrangements for two seats to Memphis. They would use whatever they got from the stateside suspect to try and work up a warrant for the guy on the George Washington.

While she got on that, Gibbs went through the messages on his desk. There weren't many, it being the weekend, but one caught his eye. Gregor had called. Please call when he had time. No emergency.

Gibbs made the call. The older man made some small talk, then got to the point.

"I've been talking to Nicky. I'd like to hire him, to work part time at the store. The job would include room and board, here, at my place."

"Okay," Gibbs said, for want of anything better.

"I'm just wondering if you think that's a good idea," Gregor said.

"Couldn't hurt. He might not stick around," Gibbs cautioned.

"I understand. But maybe if he had someone looking out for him, making sure he knew he was expected to be somewhere. It might make a difference."

"It might," Gibbs said.

"He said he's tried to work in the past, but he got too many stares. Can't imagine that'd be a problem on the Navy Yard. At least not if people knew where the scars came from."

"Probably not."

"So you think you can make it happen?" Gregor asked. Gibbs was thrown for a second.

"Me? What's it gotta do with me?" he asked.

"He'll need security clearance if he's going to be coming around regularly. They don't let just anyone work around here, you know. Without a badge, the sentries are going to turn him away."

"Is he on board with this?" Gibbs asked.

"He is. He's excited about the idea of being able to earn his way again."

"Yeah, alright. I'll see what I can do tomorrow."

Hanging up, Gibbs scribbled a reminder note on the back of the message paper. In the midst of all this, it wouldn't surprise him a bit if he forgot all about this conversation as soon as something broke. And something was going to break.

That done, Gibbs asked Ziva about McGee. Ziva said he'd been in and out of MTAC all day. He told her and DiNozzo to go home as soon as their travel arrangements were made, then rode the elevator up. He found their youngest team member there in the dark, working the keyboard in front of one of the consoles. The screen above his head was blank. He was casually dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with the tour dates of some rock band splashed across the back. Gibbs didn't think he'd ever seen McGee working in true weekend clothes. Even when they'd on occasion dragged him out of bed, he was always more professor than student.

"What're you doing?" Gibbs said from behind him. McGee, who'd been absorbed in his work, jumped a little and looked over his shoulder. Gibbs suppressed a smile. Good to know he still had it, even on crutches.

"Oh, hey Boss. Welcome back. I'm still tracking Ramey."

"Anything?" McGee got up and pulled over a chair for Gibbs to sit.

"I left a message last night, told him we needed to talk to him about an accident he might have witnessed sometime last week. I wasn't specific. He hasn't returned the call yet, but he hasn't made any other calls since I left the message, so maybe he's just got his cell turned off. Meanwhile, I've been tracking his debit card transactions."

"Is he still here?"

"As of half an hour ago. It looks like he's doing the tourist thing. Yesterday it was gift and coffee shops at three Smithsonian Museums. Today, he's been buying souvenirs at the monuments. His last purchase was drinks at the KC Café at the Kennedy Center."

"He got tickets for something?" Gibbs asked.

"Not that I've been able to find. They have a free show at the Millennium Stage every night at 6:00." McGee shrugged. "Maybe he's there."

"Where'd he spend the night last night?" Gibbs asked.

"At the Hotel Monaco."

"Really?" Gibbs asked. That was surprising. The Hotel Monaco was a luxury boutique hotel in downtown D.C., halfway between the Capitol and the White House. You couldn't get a room there for less than $250 a night. Certainly not what he'd expect on an E-5's salary.

"He entertaining?" Gibbs asked.

"Room service for two after midnight last night, but only Ramey is registered."

So, he'd spent the night with someone. Probably his girlfriend, which would explain the city tour. Of course, he could have spent the night with a pro. But working girls usually didn't spend the day seeing the sights.

"You said he's booked to fly to Montreal tomorrow. Is the trip for two?"

"He only paid for one flight. But the resort package is for two."

Curious. "He booked at the Monaco again tonight?"

"Yes."

Which meant Ramey would be in Washington until his flight tomorrow. They had plenty of time to find him. If nothing else, they could meet up with him at Dulles in the two hours he had to be there before departure.

"You been here all day?"

McGee nodded.

"Alright. Let's pack it in. If he doesn't call tonight, we'll find him in the morning."

* * *

to be continued...

I'm making progress, friends. Slow but sure. It won't be long now before the story is finished, and then I'll be posting as quickly as I can edit. Thanks for still being here. To those new reviewers who've popped up, I'd thrilled you've joined us. Hope to hear from all of you again. Your words made me smile. joy


	43. Part 40

**One Less - Part 40**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs had McGee take him home again. He sat on his couch in the dark living room, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to go up to his room. His knee was throbbing. Considering that he hadn't taken any pain pills all day, he supposed he wasn't surprised. He could feel it had swollen against the brace: Like last night, it was likely the swelling causing the pain. Gibbs leaned over to snag his go-bag off the floor. It took him half a minute of rooting around until he came up with a bottle of over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. There was a part-used bottle of water in there, and he grabbed that too. He took double the standard dose. His liver was healthy enough for it. Or it had been last time Ducky'd tested his blood.

Unstrapping his holster, Gibbs put his Sig on the coffee table. Then, remembering the events of last night, he unloaded it and tucked it into his bag instead. His gun safe was just across the room, but it was a mile too far tonight. He unlaced his boot, shaking it off, then used that foot to toe his shoe off before turning to lay back on the couch. Gibbs dug his cell out of his pocket and set it on the floor next to the couch. He put his feet up on the couch arm and grabbed a pillow, jamming it under his head. He'd lay here until the pills kicked in, then maybe order in some Chinese.

It was still dark in the house when his cell rang an unknown time later. Gibbs groaned and groped for it on the floor. His fingers brushed it and he flipped it open. It was McGee.

"Petty Officer Ramey called. He's willing to meet with us this morning."

"What time is it?" Gibbs asked. The room was dark. And very warm. He could feel sweat soaking his undershirt.

"Uh, about twenty 'til six."

"At night?" Gibbs asked. He scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing away the last vestiges of sleep.

"In the morning. You alright, Boss?"

"When?"

"When?" McGee repeated.

"When can he meet with us?" Gibbs asked. He reached back over his head and fished for the pull cord on the lamp by the end of the couch.

"He says as soon as possible. He has things to do before he flies tonight."

Gibbs took a breath. "Have him meet us at the Metro Center Café. 6:30. Come pick me up. Bring coffee." He hung up.

After taking a second to get his bearings, Gibbs sat up and shifted so his feet were on the floor. He was still wearing his overcoat, and warm air was blowing down from the heater vent above him. No wonder he was sweating.

He must have fallen asleep almost immediately after he laid down. More than 12 hours had passed, and he didn't remember dreaming a single dream. It had been a very long time since he'd last slept so deeply without chemical help. He felt rested. Really rested. His head was clear, and other than a distinct feeling of emptiness in his stomach, all systems appeared to be go.

Gibbs shrugged out of his overcoat and pulled off his shirts. He used his polo to wipe the worst of the sweat off his chest and arms, then stretched over to grab the crutches from where he'd dropped them. He levered himself upright and stood for a moment to find his balance on his left leg. He tentatively shifted some of his weight to his right. The knee held for a second before he felt it give, buckling against the brace with a bolt of pain. He grunted loudly and quickly shifted his weight back. Not a good move. He'd hoped, judging by how good the rest of him felt, that he might have gotten over the worst of the pain, and the knee might hold some of his weight. Apparently not. Looked like he was going to have to submit to surgery sooner rather than later. Damn.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

They arrived at the coffee shop on base five minutes late. The sun was just starting to rise, and it was going to be another beautiful morning in the nation's capital. Gibbs had watched the beginnings of the Monday morning commute from the passenger seat while McGee drove. The snow from last week's storm was only partially melted, leaving piles of dirty gray lining the streets. It looked just like it had last Monday, just like it would every day until the temperature stayed above freezing long enough to melt it, or a new storm came along.

Petty Officer Stephen Ramey was already sitting alone at a table in the corner when they walked in. McGee recognized him from his service record and gestured that way. Gibbs saw a taller-than-average, skinny white kid with a sun-bleached blond brush cut and a dark tan. The look of intense concentration he was giving his coffee mug didn't belong on what Gibbs could tell was a face used to smiling.

The shop was fairly busy, as expected on a weekday morning so close to so many government buildings. Most of the tables were occupied, and a buzz of conversation filled the room as pervasively as the smell of brewing coffee. They made their way between the tables, McGee leading, Gibbs following carefully behind on the crutches. He kept all his weight off the knee. He'd taken just one of the Vicodin, wanting to both tamp down the pain and keep a clear head. It had helped, but the joint was still talking to him.

"Petty Officer Ramey?" McGee asked.

"You must be NCIS," Ramey said, looking up at them. McGee produced his badge, showing his ID.

"Special Agents McGee and Gibbs," he said. The two agents took seats on two of the open sides of the table, McGee across from Ramey, Gibbs between them. There was a plate with a few crumbs on it sitting on the table. He'd been here awhile.

"Thanks for meeting me so early," Ramey said. "I'm headed up to Canada for a ski trip later today, and I've got some things to do before I go."

"We appreciate you calling back," McGee said. They would keep this as friendly as possible, as long as possible. A waitress appeared with a coffee pot. Both agents turned over the heavy white mugs that had been waiting at the table, and she poured, topping off Ramey's. They declined breakfast and she went away.

"I've learned it's best to cooperate with you guys as much as I can," Ramey said when she was gone. "You get what you want most of the time, and avoiding it only makes it worse."

"My kind of sailor," McGee said with a big smile. It said, we're all friends here, right?

"So why were you looking for me?" Ramey asked. "You said something about an accident I might have witnessed? I don't remember seeing any accidents."

McGee began. Gibbs had told him to take the lead, thinking his junior agent's more relaxed style might get them further with a sailor who wasn't suspected of anything. Yet.

"A sailor from the Roosevelt died in Washington last week."

There was a brief flash of surprise, and no guilt. "That's too bad. Someone I knew?"

"Yeoman Second Class Ferrara," McGee said.

Some sorrow. Still no guilt. "Frank," Ramey said. "The Captain's Yeoman."

"That's right. Did you know him well?" McGee asked.

"Pretty well. I used to work Mass Communications on the Roosevelt. I wrote his story, about the accident and after he came back. Was it a car wreck?"

"Actually, he was beaten to death," McGee said. Ramey's eyes widened, and he took a quick breath. There it was. A little guilt, a little unease.

"Any idea who did it?" Ramey said. He drank some of his coffee.

"We've got two sailors and a Marine in custody for it."

Now Ramey's face clearly showed his nerves. No poker player, this one. He looked past McGee at the crowded coffee shop and played with his mug for a bit before drinking again.

"What does this have to do with me?" he asked finally, his voice lowered.

"You got into some trouble a couple of years ago, while the Roosevelt was on station in the Gulf," McGee said, matching Ramey's tone. Ramey seemed to still for a moment, then he nodded. The vein in his right temple started to throb. He was working hard at betraying nothing, which all by itself betrayed a lot. McGee was doing well so far, Gibbs thought.

"Yeah, I did," Ramey finally said.

"You got into a fight with the ship's priest," McGee said.

"Yeah," he agreed again. He wrapped both hands tightly around the mug.

"What was the fight about?"

Ramey looked away and raised his mug. His hands were shaking slightly. Whatever this kid was hoping to hide, it was serious.

"It was nothing important."

"The damage to the chapel says otherwise," McGee said.

Ramey shrugged. "I got a little upset. I wasn't thinking straight. I'd been under a lot of stress."

"Apparently," Gibbs said, speaking for the first time. Not that McGee needed his help, but he thought the timing was right for a second voice. "We heard it had something to do with a missing Marine, left behind in Dubai when the ship sailed."

Ramey studied him for a second. "Why does it matter?" he asked. "It was a long time ago."

"Tell us about the fight," McGee said.

"The priest said some things that pissed me off. I was under a lot of stress at the time, and I lost it. It escalated, I took a swing at him. He fought back. He was pretty scrappy, for a priest."

"What did he say to piss you off so badly?"

Ramey shook his head. "It was private. We got into it, the MPs broke it up, I did some counseling and spent the next three years paying the price."

"There didn't appear to have been much of a price," Gibbs said. "You spent one night in the brig, then returned to duty like nothing had happened."

"I paid for it," Ramey repeated firmly and drank more coffee. His hands were still shaking a bit.

"You applied for transfer off the Roosevelt a few months later," McGee said.

"So?" Ramey said.

"Why?"

"I'd been there awhile, and I wanted a change," Ramey said.

"It didn't have anything to do with the fight?" McGee asked.

"No." An obvious lie.

"Personnel turned you down. How come?"

Ramey shrugged, like he didn't know and it didn't matter. But there was nothing nonchalant about his body language. This was a sore point for him.

"I don't know," he said.

"You applied and were rejected twice more after that before finally being transferred last year. How come?" McGee repeated.

"Maybe the Captain liked my work. My transfer was approved right after the last change of command."

That was an interesting connection they hadn't made. Gibbs wondered if the ship's prior Captain had had anything to do with keeping him aboard.

"Was having to stay aboard part of the price you paid for the fight?" Gibbs asked.

Ramey examined him for a second, then dropped his gaze back to his mug.

"You could say that," Ramey said cryptically, and didn't explain. McGee took a breath before continuing.

"You changed your religious preference from Catholic to Protestant, soon after the fight," he said.

"So what if I did?" Ramey said. "It's allowed. It's right there in the Constitution." His voice was sarcastic. But again, they could see that was significant. They just weren't sure why.

"It's unusual, that's all, for a life-long Catholic to do that. Whatever the priest said, it must have been bad."

Ramey didn't take the bait. The agents waited for almost half a minute before McGee continued.

"So the priest said something about Major Ortiz that pissed you off," he said, coming back around to their goal and upping the ante just a little. "Why were you so upset about that? Did you know the Major well?"

"I didn't know him at all," Ramey said. Which confirmed the subject matter of the fight.

"So why did you get so angry when he was left behind?"

"That's not why I was angry," Ramey said.

"No, it wasn't," Gibbs said. Again, Ramey studied him. When the silence lengthened, McGee picked it up once more.

"Why the priest? What made you think he had anything to do with it?"

"I didn't say he did," Ramey said. "I just said I was talking to him about it." He hadn't actually said that, but they weren't going to correct him.

"Why him?" McGee asked. Ramey looked at him strangely.

"Because he was my priest," he said simply. Which Gibbs supposed made sense. But they all knew that wasn't the reason.

"So what'd he say that pissed you off?" McGee circled back around.

"I told you, it was private," Ramey said.

"You were pissed that they'd crossed the line," Gibbs said, getting to the heart of the issue. All this dancing around was making him dizzy. Either the kid knew about the conspiracy, or he didn't. Gibbs would bet the house he did.

Ramey said nothing at first. Then he seemed to deflate all at once. He dropped his head and stared into his coffee mug again. "He wasn't supposed to be hurt that bad."

McGee looked at Gibbs. Finally. Gibbs gave a small nod. Let's go.

"So why was he?" McGee asked.

Ramey shook his head. "I don't know." His nervous demeanor had slipped into a sense of calm, like some inevitable line had been crossed and he didn't have to stress about it anymore.

"He was supposed to be like the others," Gibbs said. Ramey nodded.

"Hurt bad, but not too bad," McGee said.

"That's right," Ramey said.

"So what happened?" McGee repeated.

"I don't know," Ramey said again.

"But you knew he was going to be attacked," Gibbs said. "Before it happened."

"And when he didn't come back to the ship, you wanted to know why," McGee added. "That's why you went to the priest." Ramey didn't answer. They were bouncing back and forth, keeping Ramey a little off balance as he switched his attention from one agent to the other.

"Were you part of it?" McGee asked.

"Part of what?" Ramey asked.

"The attack on Major Ortiz," Gibbs said.

"No," Ramey said firmly.

"But you knew it was going to happen," McGee said.

Ramey drank more coffee, draining the mug. He set it back on the table and sighed. A moment later, Ramey nodded to himself.

"Alright," he said. The agents waited.

"Alright what?" McGee asked when he didn't continue.

"I know who was involved."

"In what?" Gibbs said.

"The assault on Major Ortiz. And the others, too. I know about all of it."

"All of what?" McGee asked.

"I know about all the victims, what happened to them and why. At least all the ones up until I left the Roosevelt last year. And I have proof. But I'm not going any further without a deal."

"A deal," Gibbs stated, clearly broadcasting what he thought of that.

Ramey nodded. "A deal. I can give you everything. All the players, names, dates, hard evidence of who was involved in each the attacks. But I want something first."

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"I want your guarantee that no matter what happens, I get to stay in the navy."

Gibbs looked at him, a hard expression settling across his features.

"If you had anything to do with this, you'll be lucky to get away with a DD and no jail time," he said.

"I know. And I probably deserve worse. But I can make your case for you, give you enough to take them all down. And all I want in return is a chance to keep serving my country. Bust me back to apprentice, put me on laundry detail for the rest of my career. I don't care. But when it's all over, I want to stay in."

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"Because the navy is all I've got left."

There was almost a minute of silence amid the hum of voices in the diner. McGee wasn't sure where Gibbs wanted to take it, and was waiting for a sign. For his part, Gibbs wasn't sure either. If the kid was involved in any of the assaults, there was no way in hell he was going to get off scot free. On the other hand, if he had the evidence he claimed to have, they needed him.

"Were you involved in any of the assaults?" Gibbs asked.

"Define involved," Ramey said. Gibbs glared at him, but Ramey didn't react. He was still nervous, clearly, but just as clearly determined.

"Did you directly participate in the commission of any of the assaults?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Ramey said.

"Help with the planning?" Gibbs asked.

There was a brief hesitation. "No," Ramey said. A lie? Maybe. But not a big one, Gibbs thought.

"Did you gather intelligence on any of the victims, or in any way play a role in setting any of them up to be attacked?" McGee asked.

"My role was never significant," Ramey said. "Nothing that helped get anyone hurt."

"So what did you do?" Gibbs asked.

Ramey shook his head. "Not until we have a deal." When Gibbs' expression of frustration kicked up another notch, Ramey continued. "I didn't hurt anyone. Didn't cause anyone to get hurt. I can give you everything you need to make a solid case for all 14 assaults that took place before I left the Roosevelt, in exchange for nothing more than letting me keep working, keep serving."

The agents exchanged looks. Fourteen before he left the Roosevelt last year. That was three more than they knew about.

"How'd you come by the information you have?" McGee asked.

"Huh uh," Ramey said, shaking his head again. "Deal first."

Gibbs looked at him again, searching for something that would tell him if it was worth his effort or not. If the kid really had what he claimed to have, and if he hadn't played a significant role in setting anyone up to be assaulted…

"Is the evidence you've got verifiable? Or is it just your word?" Gibbs asked.

Ramey considered. "I've got video," he said. Gibbs felt an immediate sense of surprise from McGee, but he didn't look over.

"Of the attacks?" Gibbs asked.

Ramey nodded. "Some of them. And of some of the planning sessions."

Well, that was impressive. But if Ramey hadn't had anything to do with the attacks, how'd he get videos? And who the hell had taken them?

"Alright. Come on," Gibbs said, and carefully stood. McGee handed him the crutches.

"Where are we going?" Ramey said, as he got to his feet.

"You want a deal, you're gonna need a lawyer."

* * *

to be continued...

Sorry for the delay, friends. I know all five of you [grin] eagerly await each new chapter. I'm working as fast as I can. Really. Which reminds me: There's going to be a (planned) delay before the next part. My family is relocating, from two two-bedroom apartments into one three-bedroom house. I'm in charge, and it's causing me unimaginable stress. The computer's going to be unplugged for a few days, then there's the rest of the packing, and the planning, and the actual move, and the unpacking, and the setting up... y'all have been there, I'm sure. Meanwhile, please do keep reviewing. I cherish every comment. joy


	44. Part 41

**One Less - Part 41**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

They drove Ramey to the JAG office aboard the Navy Yard. At only 7:15 in the morning, the public entrance was still locked, so they went in through the rear using a door security code that hadn't changed in all the years Gibbs had been with the agency. The back hall lead into the lawyers' bullpen where there was usually an attorney or two hanging around. This morning, there was no one. McGee called out "hello?" and the NCIS liaison attorney, Will Taylor, appeared from one of the side offices.

"You're in early," Gibbs said.

"Been here all night," Taylor said. "What happened to you? Your ex going for the legs now?"

"He needs a defense attorney," Gibbs said, ignoring the question.

"You're looking at one," Taylor said. When Gibbs frowned, Taylor explained: "They were a little short-handed overnight. The Admiral asked me to fill in."

"On defense?" Gibbs asked. Taylor's job was to liaison between NCIS and JAG's prosecuting attorneys to help make sure criminals got everything coming to them. It would be way out of character for him to be representing those same criminals.

"You know how it is around here: JAG lawyers represent both sides with equal dedication. I might be a little out of practice, but lawyering is lawyering. So who's your friend?" He indicated Ramey.

"He's a material witness in a string of assaults we're working that ended with a homicide last weekend. An MC2. He's looking for a deal. I need a broker."

"Material witness needs a deal. This ought to be interesting. Come on back." He lead them through the bullpen toward the conference room, off the hall through which they'd come.

"Did you hear the latest on that case you had me check out last week? O'Sullivan?" Taylor asked as they entered the room.

"What about him?" Gibbs asked. He took a seat at the table, setting the crutches beside himself.

"The guy you got to look at it decided it was a bad deal from the start: O'Sullivan never should have plead to it. The attorney who advised him was apparently an idiot, running out his last couple months in the navy before joining Daddy's Wall Street firm. My name was on the case sign-out sheet, so I was notified as a party in interest."

"What're they gonna do for him?" Gibbs asked.

"They're going to send him home. It'll take a couple of days, maybe a week at the outside. He'll be discharged under an 'other than honorable' for now. He stays out of trouble and away from the booze for two years and does a few other things, it'll be upgraded to general and his benefits will be reinstated retroactively."

Gibbs nodded, impressed. "Good."

"Hey, you got the ball rolling. He'd have done his time and been gone if you hadn't gotten involved."

"His luck he had information I needed," Gibbs said.

"Sounded like he deserved a break," Taylor said. "So, tell me what the Petty Officer needs me for."

McGee gave an overview of their investigation, leaving out the motives. Taylor took notes. When McGee was done with the background, he laid out how Ramey had gotten involved, what he claimed to have and what he wanted for it.

"Alright. I'll talk to him, see what I can do. It'll be nice to hold your marker for a change," Taylor told Gibbs. Gibbs glared at him. With a grin, Taylor told them to give him an hour, he'd call when he had something.

It was actually an hour and a half later when Taylor called Gibb's cell. Gibbs and McGee had gone to their office to wait. There was paperwork to catch up on, reports to be written, and dozens of other inconsequential but oh-so-important-to-the-bureaucracy things they'd neglected to take care of during their week-long investigation. Typical Monday morning bull. Gibbs kept looking at his watch. They were so close to ending this thing, it was killing him.

After the call, they quickly returned to the JAG Office. It was busier this time, the day in full swing at a little after 9 a.m. Taylor brought them back to the conference room where Ramey was waiting. They took the same seats they'd had before. Gibbs noticed the addition of a digital recorder in the center of the table – not running – and a brown paper folder in front of Taylor's seat with Ramey's name written on one edge in black marker.

"So what does he have?" McGee asked.

"What he's got is your case, all wrapped up with a big navy-blue bow on top."

"Oh?" Gibbs asked.

"He's got concrete, admissible evidence on 14 assaults on members of the navy and Marines. First-person, eyewitness evidence on five of them, incontrovertible documentary evidence on the rest. You won't have any problems with hearsay, chain of custody, or sourcing issues."

"And he wants immunity?" McGee asked.

"Nope." Taylor shook his head. "He hasn't done anything criminal he'd need immunity for. You might be able to get him on obstruction, and you can likely build a case on conduct unbecoming, but not without the evidence. Which he will not give you without a deal."

"How about I pry it out of him, make the obstruction case, and send him to Leavenworth for a couple years?" Gibbs asked with more than a touch of annoyance.

"You can try," Taylor said. "But he's in possession of all the evidence you'd need to make the case against him, and nothing to lose by refusing to give it to you. He keeps his mouth shut, and you're on your own. Which I explained to him in detail. He will stand on his Fifth Amendment rights and you'll have nothing."

"He said he had nothing to do with the attacks. That still true?" Gibbs asked.

"He had no direct role in them," Taylor agreed.

"What the hell does that mean?" Gibbs demanded. He was rapidly approaching his limit for double talk.

Taylor glanced at Ramey. Ramey nodded.

"Until he left the Roosevelt, he kept the cruise books."

There was a moment of shocked silence from both agents. Gibbs broke it.

"They kept books?" Cruise books were kept by the crew of a ship, or the members of a unit, to commemorate their missions. Carriers on deployment produced them like high-school yearbooks for every member of the crew. In Gibbs' time, smaller units had hand-written them as they went, with photocopies available when the unit made it home. He'd seen some newer ones on computer CDs complete with photo slide shows and video.

"On every mission," Taylor responded to Gibbs' question. "You give him what he wants, he'll give it all to you, answer every question he can, and cooperate fully through your investigation and whatever trials result."

"And all you want for that is to stay in the navy?" McGee addressed Ramey, but it was Taylor who answered.

"That's all. I told him to go for something more, full immunity on any future prosecutions related to this event, just in case you guys decide to try something. But really, that's all he wants. He's willing to submit to an officers' panel at court-martial and serve whatever punishment they determine is appropriate, short of discharge."

Gibbs was still stuck on Taylor's revelation.

"They kept books," he repeated.

Taylor shrugged. "Apparently, they were proud of their work."

"Have you seen what he's got?" Gibbs asked.

"Some of it. It's audio, video, still photos, a written log. The whole nine yards."

"You've got it with you?" McGee asked. Again, Ramey remained silent.

"I've got it," Taylor said. "A copy of it, anyway. Right here on this flash drive." He pulled a small black thumb drive out of his shirt pocket and held it up. "He knew why you wanted to talk to him. He hoped it was something else, but he knew. He's been waiting to hear from NCIS for years. He drove home to Norfolk after he got your message last night, got the evidence, then came back to Washington to meet with you this morning."

"He was there, at every attack?" Gibbs asked. Taylor set the flash drive on the table between them.

"No. Some of them happened before he got involved. For some of them, he was elsewhere. He was witness to a few. But he has the records for all of them. Until he managed to get away last year, anyway. He doesn't know what's happened since then."

Gibbs heard the phrase 'until he managed to get away,' but ignored it. He wasn't ready to see this kid in an alternate light, yet. Instead, he stayed on point.

"He was in a position to be able to stop good men from losing their careers, and he expects to keep his own?" Gibbs asked.

"I know. It sounds bad," Taylor said. "But when you hear the whole story, you'll understand. He's not saying what he did was right. In fact, he knows damn well it was wrong. Which is why he's willing to pay for it."

Taylor could see he had some convincing to do. "Let me put my prosecutor's hat back on for a second. If it was me, my case, I'd take this deal in a second. You get enough good, hard evidence to put away a whole bunch of really bad apples, and it costs you nothing. He told me the whole story. He did nothing illegal related to any of the attacks you're investigating. He was just an unwilling, uninvolved witness. In a way, he had no choice but to do what he did."

Taylor paused. "He fell into this situation unintentionally, and he wants to get out of it with as much of his moral code intact as possible. He'll give you the evidence and tell you everything he knows about all of it. All he wants is keep serving his country. It's an honorable result. Take what he's offering."

Gibbs looked hard at Ramey. "You know you're not going to Canada tonight?" he asked.

"I know," Ramey spoke for the first time. His voice was rough.

"He's a good kid who got stuck in a really bad situation," Taylor said. "Make the deal. The navy could do way worse than keeping him around."

Gibbs thought about it. "You're willing to come with us? Answer all our questions? Waive your Article 31s?"

"He is," Taylor said. "I told him he could trust you. That your word was good. He hasn't committed any crimes, and as such, I told him you wouldn't screw with him. Too much." The lawyer smiled.

Gibbs shook his head, hardly believing he was doing it. There'd already been way too many deals in this case.

"Yeah, alright. If the evidence is solid, and if he had no direct involvement in any of the attacks, I'll make the deal. You got a prosecutor on board?"

Taylor nodded. "I do. Spoke with the Admiral, gave him the gist of it. He says if you're good with it, he'll make the deal."

"Your evidence better be damn good, Ramey," Gibbs said with a less-than-veiled threat.

"It is," Ramey said.

"So what's your next move?" Taylor asked.

"We'll review what he's got, and decide where to go from there," Gibbs said. "Ramey can come with us."

"No sneaky stuff, Gibbs. I told the kid your word is good."

"Long as his is."

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

After securing Ramey in interrogation, McGee made a second copy of the flash drive and secured the copy Taylor had given them as evidence. In this digital world, it was hard to declare anything an 'original,' McGee had explained to Gibbs more than once. But Ramey had assured them the contents of the flash drive he'd given them was the complete record of the conspiracy, with nothing altered or removed. They'd have him sign an affidavit to that effect eventually, making it all nice and legal.

McGee carried the copy of the drive, a laptop, and two mugs of coffee to the conference room, Gibbs trailing behind. Gibbs took a seat facing the plasma while McGee hooked up the laptop and brought up the contents of the drive. There were 15 folders. Fourteen were labeled with an eight-digit number that didn't correspond to anything Gibbs and McGee could immediately relate to the victims. They contained a variety of files, some audio, some video, some photographs, and some text. The last one was labeled 'Operation Pride.' It contained one large file, which McGee said was a PowerPoint presentation that was either full of graphics-heavy elements, or really long.

Gibbs told him to show him one of the videos. McGee opened a random file.

The film quality wasn't bad. It started out a little shaky but quickly focused on a figure walking toward the camera from a distance. The only sound was the camera operator's slightly unsteady breathing. It was a dark street in what looked to be a commercial zone. They could see a few islands of light spilling from store fronts, their signs in several non-English languages, but most of the buildings were dark. It was hard to make out details of the figure until the camera operator zoomed the frame and the man walked under a street light.

"It's Hutchinson," McGee said, and Gibbs concurred. The young officer was having trouble walking a straight path. He kept drifting toward the street, at one point slipping off the curb only to catch himself with a few wild steps before returning to the sidewalk. He leaned against a street light to regain his balance.

"You're making this too easy," came a whispered voice, loud from being so close to the camera's microphone. The whisper made it hard to tell tone, but Gibbs thought the words were more of a warning than an expression of pleasure. Hutchinson started walking again, a little more focused now. Behind him, two figures entered the frame. They were coming from across the street. Both were dressed in dark clothing, and both carried blunt weapons: sticks, pipes or bats, it was impossible to tell.

"Careful..." came the cameraman's whisper as the two men closed in on Hutchinson from behind. The camera started to bounce again as the cameraman stepped into the street and moved closer to the action. The other two men were within a few feet of Hutchinson when he heard or sensed something and stopped walking. But he hadn't even turned when they rushed at him, shoving him bodily toward the opening of an alley. They had barely gotten him off the street when there was an explosion and the camera whited out for several seconds. They'd detonated a flash bang.

When the picture returned, the camera was looking down at the fallen sailor from above and just behind the action. Hutchinson was prone and the two men were beating on him with short lengths of pipe. They seemed to be concentrating their efforts on his back. He struggled at first, trying to get to his feet. He made it to his hands and knees a couple of times, but each time one or the other would kick him in the ribs or kick his arms out from under him to knock him back down. They were yelling at him, calling him names, imparting their message that fags didn't belong in the navy.

Finally, Hutchinson went down and didn't move. They paused, stepping back. Both men were breathing hard from the exertion. Then Hutchinson suddenly surged up and made a grab at one of them. The attacker kicked out at him, landing a boot hard against the side of his head. Hutchinson flew backwards, landing on his side facing away from them, and both attackers went after him. The one closer to the camera wound up and kicked him hard in the middle of his back, between his shoulder blades. Hutchinson's back arched away from the kick and he fell still.

"That's what broke his back," McGee said softly. Gibbs said nothing, his jaw clenched against a rising rage.

They hit him a few more times in the back and back of the head, then stepped away. The two men were panting, but their faces were celebratory. The camera zoomed in on each of them, and they gave big grins and thumbs up. It was the two sailors Radkoff had identified.

"Mission accomplished," one of them said, and they laughed, giving each other high fives. "Let's get out of here."

The camera turned to follow them away a few feet, then turned back to zoom in on the fallen man. The picture dipped down and sideways, and a hand came into the frame from behind the camera. Fingers pressed against Hutchinson's neck briefly. Taking his pulse, if Gibbs had to guess. Then it zoomed back out and showed a few final seconds of Hutchinson lying face down and unmoving before clicking off. The video ran black for a few seconds, then stopped. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes. Two minutes to end the career and forever change the life of a good man.

"What else is in that folder?" Gibbs asked tightly. McGee searched.

"There's a text file and some photos," McGee said.

"Show me the pictures."

McGee clicked a few times and the screen blanked out, then went to a slide show. The first few had been taken aboard ship: Hutchinson eating in the mess hall, watching TV in the rec room, working out in the hangar bay. They'd obviously been taken without his knowledge. The next few were of the young officer at a bar with a handful of others who had the navy look. He was wearing the clothes he'd been found in. They were taken the night of the attack. There were three pictures of him with other sailors, then another three of him at the same bar alone, then more than a dozen of what was clearly a different location. A gay bar, by the looks of it. They'd followed him around that night until they got what they wanted.

The last two photos had obviously been taken after the video shut off: Hutchinson lying sprawled on the ground in the alley, bleeding from the head, his back still arched unnaturally. He looked dead.

"There's another set," McGee said. He opened them. This collection was smaller: only three ID pictures complete with names and service numbers. The two sailors who'd been on the video, and Hutchinson.

"You think Ramey was operating the camera?" McGee asked.

"Could be," Gibbs said. He was working hard to control a sudden urge to go downstairs and beat the crap out of him.

McGee nodded and worked the keyboard again. "The text file is a mission log, organized by date and time." He paused. "There's a lot here. Whoever wrote it took detailed notes." He stopped again. "The first entry is a mission briefing, three days before the attack."

"Does it say who gave the briefing?"

"Uh, no name. It refers to him as 'Watcher.' Nothing else. It was him and the two sailors."

"What else?"

He scanned rapidly through the file. "It details what they discussed at the briefing, what their plan was. There was a second meeting that first day, another the next day, and a final meeting early the evening of Hutchinson's assault. It details the preparation for the attack, then there's an 'after action report' that describes in detail how they followed him until he was alone, and the attack itself. The last entry is a note that they were commended for their efficiency in getting it done in three days."

Gibbs took a breath. "Call DiNozzo."

McGee nodded. "I'll have an arrest warrant waiting for them when they land in Memphis. What about the other guy?"

"Draw up a warrant for him, too."

"You want me to have him arrested?" McGee asked. Gibbs looked at him.

"Of course you do," McGee said quickly. Then, "I don't think I have the authority to get him removed from a carrier."

"Use the director's name. Hell, use SecNav's name if you have to. I want him on the next helo off that ship."

"Yes, Boss."

"And send DiNozzo and David this file on Hutchinson. Tell them to see what they can get out of him before they arrest him."

McGee worked the computer for a minute, sending the files and an explanatory email to both Tony and Ziva. Gibbs stared past him, his mind replaying the video in all its reality. He'd seen a lot of horror in his career. The things people did to one another were often beyond his ability to comprehend. Gibbs had heard it said that of all the animals, only humans knew how to be cruel. And he'd seen enough to believe it.

Usually, though, he only got involved after the fact. He rarely saw cruelty in action. Witnessing a man get his back broken live on tape, for nothing more than the crime of loving another man... It was hard to wrap his head around. And to realize that those animals had celebrated their accomplishment, been proud enough of it to keep a permanent record. Gibbs clenched his fists and bounced his right one off the table. McGee looked up, concerned. Gibbs waved him back to what he was doing.

When McGee finished a minute later, he made to gather up the laptop. Gibbs told him to leave it. McGee headed off to work on the warrants. Gibbs got up and started a pot of coffee in the small machine the agency kept in the room for long meetings. He leaned against the credenza while it brewed, his mind involuntarily going over and over the final few seconds of the attack on Hutchinson. When the last of the drip was done, Gibbs walked the few steps back to the table with one crutch, the pot and a mug in the other hand. After pouring a cup full, Gibbs slid the laptop over in front of himself. He put on his glasses, took out his notebook, and turned to a fresh page. Noting Hutchinson's name and the number that was on the folder they'd opened, he opened another.

It took him more than an hour and three cups of coffee to wade through all the mission logs and view all the photos. It left him with a sick feeling in his stomach. They'd documented every step of their fanatical crusade in meticulous detail. There was no emotion in the narrative, just hard facts. Yet Gibbs thought he heard an undercurrent of... something... in the plain words as the number of casualties mounted and they continued to operate with impunity. As a group, they were clearly proud of what they were doing, but he thought maybe the writer was a little upset about it, too.

Gibbs was able to determine that with the two men McGee had written warrants on, they now had all the players involved in the attacks on Goetz, Brisbin and Hutchinson. They, and Ferrara, were the only victims whose cases were still within the statute of limitations. The others couldn't be arrested until they built the conspiracy case. And for that, they needed Thayer.

In addition to the players they already had, the logs named another three Marines and ten sailors. Ramey was not among them. Each mission briefing was run by someone referred to only as 'Watcher.' There was no indication of who that might be, or even if it was the same person each time. Maybe that was the role Ramey played. He probably would have considered that as having no significant role in the attacks.

It wasn't hard to figure out why they'd missed three victims: Comparing the log entries to the three sailors' SRBs told the story. According to official reports, two of them had been discharged after voluntarily admitting their sexual orientation to the Navy Office of Personnel. The third was seriously injured during a training exercise and discharged. All very reasonable, but the mission logs revealed the truth: The 'voluntary' admissions were made after the two sailors were repeatedly threatened and subjected to a pattern of intense harassment during ocean crossings. The investigation into the training accident revealed serious doubts that it had been an accident at all. Nonetheless, the investigator hadn't been able to prove it was intentional, so the two sailors involved in the mishap had been disciplined for carelessness and went on with their careers. It was the closest they'd come to getting caught. All three of those cases were beyond the statute of limitations for simple assault.

It was a ton of information, and if it was all true, it was as Taylor had promised: Their entire case wrapped up with a big bow on top. Except for one thing. Nowhere in the logs did it mention the priest by name. Not once. Maybe Thayer was the 'Watcher'?

Gibbs supposed there could be something on the videos. Unlikely, considering the lack of mention of the priest in the logs, but possible. He'd have to watch them all eventually. And look at the PowerPoint, which he assumed was the actual mission book. But not now. Now, it was time to talk to Ramey. He pulled the flash drive out of the computer and pocketed it, then went back to the squad room.

"The agent afloat on the George Washington took that sailor into custody based on our warrant 20 minutes ago," McGee said when Gibbs came around the corner. "The ship's on station in Japan. An MP escort will start him our way in the morning. Their morning.

"Tony and Ziva won't be in Memphis for another hour, but I got an email back from Ziva saying they got what I sent them and they'll be ready to interrogate that guy."

"Good. Here." He flipped the copy of the drive over to McGee. "Make an evidence log for the files on that. Print the photos, listen to the audio files, see what's in them. You can leave the videos. We'll get to them later."

"You going to talk to Ramey?" McGee asked.

"Uh huh," Gibbs said.

"Should I come?" McGee asked.

"No," Gibbs said. He understood McGee's desire to be in on the interrogation, but with his team split, he needed McGee working, not watching.

"You sure?" McGee asked. Gibbs looked at him strangely. This was unusual. It was the second time on this case that McGee had challenged him when he gave assignments. Gibbs wondered if the knee injury and the crutches were making him seem somehow less in his junior agent's eyes.

"Some reason I wouldn't be sure, McGee?" Gibbs asked with a small growl, just because. McGee swallowed hard, then straightened a little in his seat.

"You're not at your best, Boss. If Tony was here, he'd figure out how to weasel his way into interrogation, to back you up. I'm not as good at the weaseling part, but I'm good back up."

Ah. Now Gibbs understood. McGee didn't want Gibbs to think he wasn't up to the task of standing in as Gibbs' second when Tony was away. DiNozzo and McGee had always been like brothers, and as the little brother, Tim had a tendency to fall into Tony's shadow. Not that he belonged there, but the psychology of it was beyond Gibbs' ability to sort out. All he could do was give McGee the opportunity to prove himself apart from DiNozzo, and let the chips fall. Over the years, the younger man had shown himself capable, and worthy of Gibbs' trust. It wasn't something Gibbs worried about anymore, but apparently McGee still did.

It really didn't surprise Gibbs that McGee had a backbone. He'd seen it first hand, many times. What did surprise him was that McGee had chosen this manner, at this time, to use it. To stand up to Gibbs and push back. Even if it was just a little. That kind of nerve deserved a response.

"You're a good agent, Tim. If I needed back up, I'd trust you to give it. But I don't. Ramey needs to cooperate, and he knows it. I need to know what those audio files are, and if there's any mention of the priest in any of them. The Roosevelt is getting further away by the second." He paused, then nodded to himself. One more thing needed to be said.

"I appreciate the offer."

McGee nodded back, and Gibbs could have sworn he saw an expression of satisfaction on McGee's face before the agent turned back to his computer.

* * *

to be continued...

Sorry for the long delay, folks. I usually don't list my excuses (because it annoys me when others do it) but it's been a really terrible, horrible, no good, very bad bunch of days around here. My father was critically injured in a household accident two days before the moving trucks showed up, and he's been in the Intensive Care Unit ever since. I've been totally unable to string six sentences together, and totally uninspired to work on fiction. I usually like to keep a certain number of words ahead of you, but you've been so patient I decided to go ahead and publish this. I'll get back into it eventually, hopefully soon, but until then, I hope this holds you over. Thanks for reading. joy


	45. Part 42

**One Less - Part 42**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Ramey was standing in the corner under the security camera when Gibbs walked into observation. The sailor had his back pressed into the corner, his feet shoulder width apart, his hands at his side. He was staring at his reflection in the one-way glass. Gibbs stood silent and watched him for several minutes. Ramey didn't move except to blink. His face showed concentration. Gibbs wondered what he was seeing.

Without a word to the recording tech, Gibbs went to interrogation. Ramey didn't move or even turn to look. Gibbs sat in the chair, laying the crutches on the ground next to him out of the way.

"Have a seat," Gibbs said. Ramey pushed off the corner and moved smartly to the chair. He sat, folded his hands in his lap, and looked at Gibbs.

"I read through the mission logs," Gibbs said. Ramey nodded, but said nothing.

"There's a few questions I need answered."

"I'll do my best," Ramey said. His voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat.

"I didn't see your name in the logs," Gibbs said.

"I was the 'Watcher' for the last three years before I got away."

Got away. Huh. "And what exactly did you do in that role?"

"I told you. Mostly I kept the books," Ramey said.

Gibbs heard the 'mostly' qualifier. "Explain."

"I sat in on the pre-mission briefings, took notes for the log, received the pictures and video, formatted it all into the book."

"The PowerPoint?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes," Ramey said.

"Everything else on the drive was the raw information you were using to build the book."

"Yes," Ramey said again.

"Did you go out yourself? Operate the camera?"

"Twice," Ramey said. "Lt. j.g. Brisbin, and Master Chief Goetz."

The last two attacks before he left the Roosevelt. "What about the other victims? Who did the filming for those?"

"Three junior sailors. I can give you their names."

Gibbs took them down. Two had been involved in another attack, one was new.

"What else did you do?"

"I ran the mission briefings, made sure everyone knew the when and where, made sure there was someone to run the camera, provided cover as necessary."

"Did you choose the victims?"

"No. I had nothing to do with that part of it."

"How were the victims chosen?"

"The way I understood it, anyone they found out was gay went on the target list. Then individuals were selected from the list to be removed."

"Who selected the individuals?"

"I don't know. I was just told who it would be."

"How were you told?"

"One of the men who was going on the mission would come to me, say they'd chosen another victim, that we needed to schedule a meeting."

"Did you come up with the plans of attack?"

"No." He hesitated, then: "Sometimes I pointed out problems with their plans during the meetings, showed them where I thought they needed to do something different. But the ideas were all theirs."

Gibbs thought that was a pretty fine line.

"Why didn't you warn the victims? Once you knew their names?"

"I couldn't. The others would have figured out it was me. I'd seen what they were capable of."

"So to protect yourself, you let other men get beaten."

"Yes," Ramey said. Gibbs stared at him, his expression clearly broadcasting what he thought of a man who would do that. To his credit, Ramey didn't look away.

"When did you get involved?"

"Right after Major Ortiz." That would have been three years into the conspiracy.

"Who was in charge before you?"

"I wasn't in charge," Ramey said. "I just ran the meetings. They considered it a record-keeping assignment. The name 'Watcher' came from an old TV show: The Watchers observed and recorded events, but didn't get involved. That's why they never named the Watcher in the logs. It wasn't about me. It was about them and their mission. They just needed someone to keep the books."

"Who was in charge?"

"I don't know. It was someone high up, but no one ever told me. It might have even been more than one officer over the years. The players were always changing."

Gibbs shook his head. "That doesn't work. How could you be so involved in this thing and not ask who was pulling the strings?"

"I didn't want to know," Ramey said insistently. "I didn't want to believe that anyone with rank was involved in destroying the lives of their own men. I respect the senior officer corps too much for that."

That did work, mostly. Intentional ignorance was a wonderful thing, for the person practicing it.

"How did you get involved?"

"One of them came to me early in 2005, asked me to join the mission. I turned him down. Then after Major Ortiz, I was asked again. I couldn't refuse that time."

"Why not?

"Because of the fight with the priest."

"What does that mean?"

There was a moment of silence before Ramey spoke. "After the fight, one of the players came to me and told me I'd be joining them. I knew that if I didn't, I'd be brought up on charges for the fight, court-martialed for striking an officer and eventually discharged."

"Where was the connection between them and the fight?" Was this where Gibbs would get evidence of the priest's involvement?

"I don't understand," Ramey said.

"What made you think they had any power to have you brought up on charges?" Gibbs asked another way.

Ramey thought about it. "The morning after the fight, the priest came to see me in the brig. He told me he was going to recommend counseling and suspend any other punishment for the time being. I'd been talking to him, as confessor and advisor, for a long time, and he knew how important the navy was to me. He told me he'd be holding my marker, that he'd need me to do something for him in the future, and that would be the trade off. That if I did it, all would be forgiven. But if I didn't, he'd go to the Captain, say he'd changed his mind and wanted to press charges. He had three years to do that."

"So how'd you make the connection? How'd you know that what they were asking you to do was part of your payback to the priest?"

"How would they have know about it if it wasn't? It's not like the priest would have told anyone he was blackmailing me." Which made sense, Gibbs supposed.

"Tell me about the fight."

Ramey hesitated for a long moment, and Gibbs jumped on it. "The whole truth, Ramey, or the deal's off."

"I know," Ramey said. "It was mostly like you figured out. I knew they'd gone after Major Ortiz, and when he wasn't found before the ship sailed, I went to see Cmdr. Thayer. I asked him where the Major was. He said he didn't know. I didn't believe him. I pushed some more and he told me maybe Major Ortiz deserved to be left behind, because he didn't deserve the title of Marine. That's what pissed me off. I mean, the Major had served with distinction, for a long time. He'd done everything they told him to do, and they just left him behind like used trash."

"He did everything who told him to?"

"Them. He was the Watcher, before me."

Gibbs blinked at him, momentarily blindsided. "Major Ortiz? He was part of it?"

Ramey nodded. "For years. They went after him because he threatened to tell. They needed to destroy him, to protect the mission. So you see why I couldn't warn the victims. I'd have ended up just like him."

"Major Ortiz wasn't gay?" Gibbs asked.

"He was, but they didn't know that until they decided to go after him. They needed to get rid of him, and when they started the planning, they discovered he was gay and went into overdrive."

"Was that why he was hurt so badly?" Gibbs asked.

"I think so," Ramey said. He looked past Gibbs at his reflection in the mirror. "I think they were really pissed that he'd hidden among them for so long. But I don't know for sure. They never put it in so many words."

Ramey took a couple of breaths, then looked back at Gibbs. "I think the guys who went were just as clueless as the rest of us why he didn't get picked up by the local EMS, like all the others. If you read the logs, you know they were worried about what might have happened to him after they left. They didn't go into it with the intent to mess him up that bad. I don't know what happened."

"What does the video show?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know. I couldn't watch it."

"Couldn't watch it?" Gibbs repeated. Ramey shook his head.

"I only watched what I had to, to do my job. I guess that makes me a coward."

Gibbs said nothing. He hadn't yet watched the videos himself. Not because of cowardice, but the emotion was similar. He understood Ramey's desire not to see the crimes in progress, but he was not going to allow it. Gibbs swore that before this was over, the sailor was going to watch every second of every video. He deserved to know the horror he'd help inflict; however minor his role may have been.

Dragging his thoughts away from revenge, Gibbs wondered: How had Ortiz gotten mixed up in this thing in the first place? Maybe they'd asked him to participate, and he was afraid they'd find out if he refused. Or maybe the priest had something on him, too.

"Why'd you think the priest would know where Ortiz was?" Gibbs said.

"Cuz he went into the city to find him. I think."

"What?" Gibbs asked, surprised. This was new.

"When he didn't show up by the next night, I went to the guy who'd lead the mission, a sailor named Hartman. He said they'd left him like the others, unconscious in an alley off the marketplace. Then he told me Cmdr. Thayer was waiting for them on the dock when they got back. Hartman said he asked them where they left Ortiz, and after they told him, he told them to board, then he hailed a cab. So I figured Thayer went looking for him and would know what happened."

"One of the sailors who attacked Major Ortiz told you that Thayer went back to where they'd left him?" Gibbs repeated.

Ramey nodded. "That's why I went to him. I wanted to know if he'd seen the Major that night, after they were done with him. If he was still where they'd left him when he got there, or if he'd already disappeared."

Gibbs knew enough about the rules of evidence to know that second – no, third – hand information like that wasn't admissible in court without confirmation from a closer source. But it could certainly be useful. Especially to Frederick who was presumably at that very moment working on getting the priest to confess.

"Was the priest involved in any other way that you know of?" Gibbs asked.

"That's the only time I know he was directly involved. But going by the fact that they used the fight against me, he might have been more involved. I don't know."

"Could he have been in charge?" Gibbs asked. It was a risk. By putting the question to Ramey, a defense attorney could say any future testimony Ramey gave on the subject was planted or coached. But Gibbs had to know.

Ramey shrugged. "I suppose. But I don't have any evidence of that. He was never at any of the meetings, no one ever mentioned his name. He never talked about the mission to me."

That was no help. "Who was the highest ranking officer you know was involved?"

"Other than Major Ortiz?" Ramey asked. Gibbs nodded. "I suppose it was Lt. Eckstrom." A name Gibbs had gotten out of the logs.

"You don't know of any other officers or high-ranking enlisted not named in the logs who were involved?"

"No," Ramey shook his head.

Gibbs reviewed what he had, and what was missing. On Ramey's testimony and the contents of the logs – assuming the names were backed up with film or audio for the other attacks like they were with Hutchinson's – they had enough to swear out warrants on all the players whose crimes were still in the statute of limitations. But they still didn't have the priest. Damn it.

"Why didn't you resign?" Gibbs asked finally, because he really wanted to understand. If Ramey had been afraid of retaliation, from the priest or the other players, that would have been an option. So why hadn't he taken it?

Ramey looked uncomfortable. "Because the navy is all I have," he said after a minute.

"No family?"

Ramey shook his head.

"What happened to your parents?" he asked. It didn't matter, but it might be useful later.

"I never knew my father. My mother died when I was four. Drug overdose. I grew up in foster care. When I turned 17, I convinced a judge to let me join the navy. I never looked back."

"No siblings?" Gibbs asked. Ramey shook his head.

"Grandparents, aunts and uncles? No one?"

"The navy is my family. I can't lose it. Doesn't matter what it costs me to stay. It's all I have."

Well that sucked. Even though Gibbs had joined the Marines to escape his family and his small town life, he'd still known it was all back there, waiting for him should he choose to return. Besides, he'd had Shannon. "Who were you in Washington with?"

That made Ramey's eyes widen – in fear, Gibbs thought strangely – and he hesitated again. Gibbs cocked his head, waiting.

"A friend."

"Navy friend?"

"No."

"So you do have someone," Gibbs said.

"It's a new relationship. I'm not sure where it's going yet."

"Yet you spent two nights in a luxury hotel with her."

Ramey swallowed. "How do you know that?"

"We were tracking you for awhile before you called back. You visited the Museums, several of the monuments, and the Kennedy Center before we decided to stop surveillance. If you hadn't called back, you were going to pick you up at Dulles tonight." Gibbs threw that out, just to see Ramey's reaction.

There were several seconds of stunned silence and Ramey's visible level of fear skyrocketed. "You were following me?"

Gibbs wondered what the kid was suddenly afraid of. What he'd been doing in Washington that he was scared they might have seen. "What if we were?"

"If you were, then you already know. If not, please don't ask me to tell you."

"The deal was, you tell me everything," Gibbs said.

"No. The deal was, I tell you everything I know about the mission. What I do on my own time is no one's business." It was the first show of strength Ramey had offered. It was honorable, but unacceptable.

"The deal is, you tell me what I want to know," Gibbs said firmly. "What are you trying to hide?"

"It's nothing. Please," Ramey said, and his voice broke a little.

Gibbs studied him across the table, his face inscrutable. He waited. Ramey didn't look away. What could be so secret the kid would risk the deal, after he'd shown his hand? As far as they knew, Ramey had just been playing tourist in D.C., not up to anything illegal. Gibbs tried to figure what it could be. He'd thought last night that maybe Ramey was with a pro. Minimally illegal and potentially embarrassing, but nothing approaching what he'd already admitted to. Could it be drugs? There was certainly plenty of that in the District. But Gibbs could smell an addict from 100 yards, and he was certain Ramey wasn't one. On the other hand, the price of two nights at the Monaco had to come from somewhere.

"Who paid for the room at the Monaco?" Gibbs asked.

"I did," Ramey said immediately.

"Where'd you get the money?" Gibbs asked.

"I won it," Ramey said. When Gibbs frowned, Ramey nodded and continued. "Last month, I hit $2,000 on a Virginia lotto scratcher. You can check."

Despite the improbability of that, Gibbs read him as truthful. So what was he hiding? He continued staring at the young sailor. So if it wasn't money, drugs or sex, what was left? Ramey'd said that if they'd been following him, they'd already know. So whatever he'd been up to, it was plainly visible. Maybe it wasn't what he'd been doing, but who he'd been doing it with.

Gibbs' cell phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket, making him flinch. He leaned slightly sideways to reach in and shut it off. It had to be someone from outside: his team knew better than to interrupt him during interrogation. Whoever it was could leave a voicemail.

"Your friend. What's her name?"

"Chris," Ramey said after a moment's hesitation, then: "Christine."

"Last name?"

"No," Ramey said, and shook his head. "I'm not going to tell you. It has nothing to do with the mission."

"We're going to find out, Ramey," Gibbs warned.

"I hope you won't," Ramey said. "And I wish you wouldn't try. It's nothing to you."

"You don't tell me everything, the deal's off," Gibbs said.

"That's not the deal we made, and you know it," Ramey said. His words were firm, but his voice was still shaky. "Taylor said I could trust you."

Gibbs hated it – absolutely hated it – when his own honor got in the way of what he needed to get done.

His cell vibrated again. With a silent growl of frustration, Gibbs pulled the phone out and looked at the caller ID. Abby. He flipped it open.

"What?"

"Gibbs, Gibbs! I got into Petty Officer Lewiston's laptop. You've got to see this. Right now."

"I'm busy," he said.

"I know, but this is really big. It could change everything! You've got to see it!"

"Alright. Be right there." Gibbs snapped the phone shut and slid it into his pocket. He pushed away from the table and reached for the crutches.

"We're not done," he said, and stood. Without another glance, he left the room.

**xxxxXXXXxxxx**

It was a short trip to Abby's lab. She was staring intently at her computer, bouncing slightly on her platforms.

"What'da'ya got, Abby?" he asked as he hobbled in.

"You're not going to believe it. It's everything. Everything you need to make the whole case, right there on that laptop." She gestured at a laptop sealed in a large plastic evidence bag. Gibbs knew it was standard procedure to copy the contents of computers recovered as evidence, then work with the copy.

"There's video, audio, photos, a log with all the details. For all the victims, plus three we didn't know about," Abby continued. "They were keeping records."

"We've already got that," Gibbs said with some disappointment. "Couple hours ago."

"Oh," Abby said, and deflated all at once. "Guess that means Rule 22 applied, huh?"

"It's alright. I was ready for a break. You got it off Lewiston's laptop?" Gibbs asked. When Abby nodded, he continued: "Does it have files on Ferrara?"

"Yes," Abby said. "There's a video of the attack. I watched it. It's really bad."

"Well, that we don't have. What we had ends with Master Chief Goetz," Gibbs said. That meant Lewiston must have taken over as Watcher after Ramey. Except he'd participated in the attack on Ferrara, which Ramey said Watchers didn't do. On the other hand, that could explain why Rosario thought Lewiston was in charge.

"Who'd you get it from?" Abby asked, bringing Gibbs out of his musings.

"Guy we brought in this morning. I made a deal with him so we could have it."

"Dang," Abby said. "I should have gotten into it sooner."

"S'alright." He paused. "The guy I've got was touring the District yesterday. Can you find him on security cameras and see who he was with?"

"Maybe. If we went someplace where they store their footage off site, and you know when and where."

"We do. McGee's got the details."

"You need it legal?" she asked.

"It's not for evidence. I just need it."

"Will do," Abby said. "Hey, isn't this usually the kind of thing you give McGee?" she asked as Gibbs turned and started out.

"He's busy. Send him a copy of the Ferrara files."

"On it, Boss," Abby said in his wake, mimicking McGee. He smiled without turning.

* * *

to be continued... reviews gratefully accepted.

For those of you who reviewed the last chapter, and those who didn't but are still with me: thanks so much for your good wishes and prayers. Dad spent six weeks in the ICU, then about 10 days in a step-down unit. He was gradually improving, though nowhere near ready to come home. Yesterday they started talking discharge to a lower level of care, and today he had to go back to ICU when he developed breathing trouble and signs of infection. I continue to pray for the best. Writing is a great distraction. Reviews brighten my days in ways you could not imagine. Thank you to all who've taken the time to drop me a line. I treasure every email. joy


	46. Part 43

**RECAP OF LAST SECTION:** When last we heard from the gang, Gibbs had taken a break in his 'interrogation' of Petty Officer Ramey to talk to Abby. Ramey, it turns out, was the "Watcher" who observed and recorded, but never participated in the attacks. We discovered that Major Ortiz was at one point also a Watcher, and his attack came after the conspirators discovered he was gay and had been hiding among them. Ramey admitted that his involvement came under 'orders' from the priest after the fight on board years before, but denied knowing of any direct involvement by Father Thayer. Ramey told Gibbs he thought the priest had gone into the city after Major Ortiz's attack, and would therefore know why the Major hadn't returned to the ship. This was the reason Ramey gave for the fight with the priest: he went to him asking about Major Ortiz's whereabouts and got angry when the priest said that maybe the Major didn't deserve to be a Marine. Toward the end of the interview, when Gibbs was fishing for something that would explain why Ramey didn't just walk away from the Navy once he became trapped in the conspiracy, Gibbs asked Ramey who he'd been in Washington with. That brought a fear response, and a name: Christine. Ramey showed a little backbone in refusing to further discuss his friend, reminding Gibbs that the deal had only involved telling what he knew of the conspiracy, and nothing else. Frustrated, Gibbs asks Abby to track down security video of places Ramey was in D.C., in hopes of identifying the friend.

It's Monday, and the USS Roosevelt is on its way to Florida, scheduled to begin its Atlantic crossing on Friday. Gibbs promised the Captain he would have Thayer removed from the ship by then. Time is definitely running out.

* * *

**One Less - Part 43**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

It didn't take long. Abby appeared at Gibbs' desk less than thirty minutes later with a handful of photos. McGee was still working on the audio files, a set of stereo headphones blocking out the sound of the squadroom.

"This case just keeps getting hinkier and hinkier," Abby said and handed him the stack. "Is that even a word? Hinkier. Maybe it should be 'more hinky'? I don't know cuz..." Gibbs tuned her out and looked at the top picture. It was Ramey, sitting in the window of a café, having coffee with a good-looking brunette with shoulder-length straight hair. The view was both their profiles. It was hard to tell from the poor quality of the security photo, but it looked like she was Hispanic, maybe South American. He flipped to the next photo. In the gift shop at the Air and Space Museum, standing very close to the brunette, his head partially blocking her face. Next: Approaching the entrance to the Washington Monument, a very clear shot. Gibbs looked closely at the brunette. The photo was a grainy blow up, but he thought something was a little off about her face... He put on his glasses and looked closer.

"Check out the next picture." Abby spoke directly into Gibbs ear from right behind his shoulder and he barely managed not to jump. She was getting better at that. He flipped to the next photo. This was the front entryway of the Hotel Monaco. The doorman was holding the door for two men. One was Ramey, the other was younger, with close-cropped dark hair. Again, the photo had been enlarged and the grain was pretty bad. The other man looked...

Gibbs flipped back to the previous picture, looking at the girl again, then back.

"It's the same person," Gibbs said, turning to look over his shoulder at her.

"Uh huh," Abby said with a grin. "Your guy's girl is a guy."

Gibbs put the pictures down, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. A whole lot of things suddenly became clearer. Petty Officer Ramey was in a relationship with a transvestite. A transsexual? A cross-dresser? Something. He honestly wasn't sure what the terms were these days. In any event, it didn't necessarily mean he was gay. Even Gibbs knew that. But Ramey had referred to it as a relationship. If Ramey did lean that way, he would have been pretty desperate to keep it from the players in the conspiracy. Especially considering what had happened to Major Ortiz once they discovered his secret. What Ramey'd said about having no choice but to play his part, about escaping the ship: In that light, it all made sense.

"Thanks, Abs," Gibbs said when he realized she was waiting for a reaction.

"You need me to ID her? Him?" Abby asked.

Gibbs shook his head. "Nah. We don't need him. Or her."

"Then my work here is done." She started away.

"Hey," he called after her. Abby turned back.

"C'mere," he waved her over, and she stepped behind his desk again. He gestured her down to whisper in her ear. "Good job, Abby," he said, and kissed the side of her head. She beamed at him.

* * *

Ramey was still sitting at the table when Gibbs returned to interrogation. It had taken Gibbs a lot longer than it should have to decide what to do with the sailor. Now that he understood more of what had happened and why, his opinion of what Ramey had done wasn't so cut and dry. He was still pissed that Ramey had let four lives be destroyed and said nothing. But with this new information, his anger became more institutional than specific. Ramey would still pay for what he'd done, Gibbs would see to it. But this was pretty powerful mitigation.

Gibbs sat down and carefully set the last two photos he'd looked at in front of Ramey. Ramey glanced at the pictures, looked away. His face colored a little. When Gibbs spoke, his voice was soft.

"This was the secret you were trying to keep," Gibbs said. Ramey nodded miserably. He wouldn't meet Gibbs' eye.

"Have you ever talked to anyone about it?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Ramey said.

"Not even in confidence?"

"No. It's not something I'm proud of."

"You struggle with it?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes," Ramey said. "I wish I could be different."

"So why not get some help with it?"

Ramey made a small sound of dismissal. "I'm in the navy. Who would I talk to about... that?"

"You were Catholic. Why not talk to your priest? To Thayer?"

"I was afraid to."

"Why?" Gibbs asked and waited, figuratively crossing his fingers.

Ramey took a breath, let it out in a sigh. He looked at Gibbs momentarily but couldn't hold it. "At one of my last foster homes, we went to a church with a bad priest. He would get drunk and spill confession secrets to whoever happened to be around. By the time he was suspended, he'd done a lot of damage to a lot of people. I stopped confessing the really bad stuff to the priests after that."

"So it had nothing to do with Thayer specifically," Gibbs said. Come on, kid. Give me something.

Ramey shrugged. "I thought maybe that's how the players were finding out who was gay."

"You have any proof of that?"

"No. Just a fear." Ramey paused, looking past Gibbs into the mirror for a few seconds before continuing.

"I believe in God, and the truths of the Bible. But my faith in Catholicism was never very strong. My mother always claimed to be Catholic, even though I can't remember ever going to church with her. When she died and I hit the system, they put me down as Catholic too. Some of my foster homes were devout, others not so much. When I went to mass, I went through the motions, but it never really meant a lot to me. Then, after I joined the navy and figured out I was gay, it seemed like one too many strikes against me. I tried to be a Cafeteria Catholic, picking what to believe and leaving the rest behind, but it didn't feel right. I still went to confession, still attended mass, but I wasn't committed. Then, when Thayer said what he did about Major Ortiz, I decided it wasn't worth the effort anymore. That's why I changed my religious preference."

"But you don't think Thayer was involved in the attacks," Gibbs said, pushing now just a little.

Ramey shook his head, looking down at his hands. "Maybe. I just don't know."

Gibbs nodded. That was the best he was going to get. He opened his phone and made a call.

"I need someone down in interrogation. Priority three," he said, and snapped it shut.

They sat in silence in the small room for several minutes. Gibbs watched Ramey, but didn't stare or try to intimidate him. There was no longer any point in it.

"I tried to help you guys figure it out, you know," Ramey said suddenly.

"Oh?" Gibbs said.

"The notes. 'One Less'? That was me," Ramey said.

"You told them to do that?" Gibbs asked.

"Not the first one. Hartmann put the note in Major Ortiz's pocket. That was the first one. When I got involved, before the next attack, they were talking about how stupid it was that he did that, left evidence. I convinced them it wasn't stupid. I told them it would make the mission more real, to leave a sign of their work. To make sure that everyone who came after knew it wasn't just random acts. That there was a purpose. They decided I was right and it became part of the pattern. I was hoping investigators would start to notice and put it together." He paused. "I thought it would happen sooner. It was the best I could do without putting myself at risk."

A sharp rap on the door made Ramey jump and turn. Gibbs bade enter. A building security officer stepped in.

"He'll need an escort out of the building," Gibbs told the officer. Turning back to Ramey, he said: "Go home." Ramey looked confused.

"What?"

"You heard me. Go home. Go back to work. Keep your mouth shut. Do not talk to Thayer or anyone else you even think might be involved in this thing or I will arrest you on a new charge of obstruction of justice and our deal will be dead."

"Just, go back to work?" Ramey asked. "That's it?"

"No, that's not it. You'll still need to testify, and you'll still face court martial when this is all over. Meanwhile, you're free to go."

"I don't understand," Ramey said.

"What part of 'get the hell out of my office' is confusing you, Petty Officer Ramey?" Gibbs growled, and Ramey stood up instinctively, his chair scraping on the floor. He took a step away from the table, then paused.

"Can I still go skiing?"

"No. Go home. Take your friend with you. Stay in Norfolk and wait for Taylor or someone from JAG to call you. Do not be unreachable."

Ramey looked down at Gibbs, the confusion still present but overshadowed by relief. "Thank you," he said.

Gibbs didn't acknowledge him, and after a moment, Ramey turned away. The security officer gestured him ahead and Ramey stepped out into the hall. The door closed quietly behind them.

* * *

The next three days were busy. McGee had found no mention of the priest on the audio recordings, meaning it was all in Fredrick's hands. The agent afloat checked in daily, but could only say he was working on it. DiNozzo and David returned from Memphis with the sailor in custody. He'd lawyered up the moment he knew what they were there for. In fact, everyone they had in custody – even Rosario – had finally gotten a clue and shut up. As they'd hoped, they'd gotten lawyer-free access to Lewiston, but all he'd wanted to talk about was what deal he could get. With what they now knew and suspected about Lewiston's involvement both as Watcher and assailant, Gibbs was disinclined to offer him anything. The only thing he might have that they'd be interested in was proof of the priest's involvement. Gibbs had hinted at that potential, but promised nothing. The next day they were contacted by Lewiston's new attorney – a proper military defense attorney – and were informed that Lewiston would not be speaking to them again unless a firm offer for a deal was in place.

The guy from the USS George Washington was their one success. On arrival in the capital, he'd done the honorable thing and immediately confessed his role in Hutchinson's assault. As disgusted as Gibbs was with the officer sitting across the interrogation table from him, Gibbs had to respect the forthright way the officer told his story. He was sorry Hutchinson had been permanently disabled. They hadn't meant that to happen. It was the other sailor who'd delivered that final kick to Hutchinson's back, but he knew he was just as responsible. He was ready to resign his commission and throw himself on the mercy of a court martial. He was also more than happy to testify against his cohort, and tell everything he knew of the conspiracy in open court.

For a few minutes during the interrogation, Gibbs thought they had something. The GW officer said he'd gotten involved a few days after the priest told him Hutchinson was gay. He had spoken with the priest about how they might be able to help Hutchinson see the error of his ways, and two days later, Ramey had come to him and said he was wanted at a meeting. It was the first independent corroboration they had. But that was as far as it went. Like on Goetz's tape, there was only the priest trying to help a sailor overcome sin. No instructions to go commit assault. So damn close, then nothing.

DiNozzo took the four active cases to Taylor for a look-over on Wednesday morning. Taylor signed off on all the charges the team proposed against Fazio, Lewiston, Radkoff, the guy from NAS Memphis, and the officer from the George Washington. From there, it was out of the agents' hands. They'd all have to testify as to the investigation, but there was no more work to be done on those cases until trial prep. A homicide and three cold assault cases solved and off their caseload. Not a bad effort for a week's work.

Gibbs spent most of the week in the office and off his feet. The director tried to get him to take some time off, to have the surgery on his knee, but Gibbs refused. Even after the primary cases were filed, there was a lot of work to be done to build cases against the 15 outstanding conspirators. Just having the evidence against them wasn't enough. The agents had to put it together in such a manner that they'd be able convince a prosecutor they had enough to convict on conspiracy to commit crimes that were beyond the statute of limitations. Again, Thayer's continuing involvement was going to be the key. It frustrated the hell out of Gibbs that they couldn't find anyone who could fill in that missing piece.

In Goetz's recording of his conversation with Thayer, the priest had admitted to asking someone to 'help' Goetz with his sin. There were four known players on that attack: Ramey, who by that time wasn't talking to the priest at all, Fazio, Lewiston and the now-dead sailor Curren. The agents hadn't known about the priest's involvement when Gibbs interviewed Fazio, and of course Lewiston hadn't said a word. So it could have been either of them. Maybe the priest was talking to a different player every time. That would account for no one knowing he was involved in the big picture. He spoke to one in confession, told that one to tell the Watcher it was time. Reasonable, but no way to prove it without Thayer's confession. There were just too damn many variables.

They spent considerable time locating the outstanding players and figuring out how to approach the arrests. Once they started picking them up, word would undoubtedly get around. Eventually, it would get to Thayer. If that happened too soon it could blow the whole thing. Gibbs finally decided the only way to do it was a simultaneous takedown. When they got word that Fredrick had what they needed – or when the Roosevelt was ready to depart Jacksonville on Friday – Gibbs would call a 'go' and teams would arrest all 15 of them immediately. To that end, they prepared full reports on the whereabouts of each conspirator and put together 15 separate pairs of agents in locales across the country and overseas. Not all of the outstanding players were still in the navy, but they were all on the radar. It was a complicated plan. Plenty of room for error. But after three planning sessions in MTAC, Gibbs was confident that they'd get most of them.

They still hadn't watched all the videos of the attacks. Though he didn't want to admit it, Gibbs knew he was stalling. He'd been watching them at random, and still had five of the 15 to watch, including the videos of Chief Goetz and Major Ortiz. It seemed every time he set time aside to watch them, something more important came up. He could continue justifying the delay, he supposed, but it was getting a little ridiculous. Still, watching sailors who were sworn to serve and protect instead beat and destroy good men over and over was one of the tougher things he'd ever had to do.

On Wednesday afternoon and Thursday morning, they caught two new cases. The first was an AWOL sailor missing four days who showed up at his home while McGee and David were interviewing the wife. They left it to his command – and his wife – to figure out the consequence of his impromptu trip to Atlantic City with an old flame.

The second appeared on its face to be a robbery gone bad. A 33-year-old Marine Sergeant had been found dead in the middle of his torn-up apartment, a large knife buried in his chest. There was blood everywhere, clear signs of a struggle. The initial theory was he'd surprised a burglar coming home. He was still wearing his overcoat, hat, and gloves, and a bag of groceries was spilled on the floor.

DiNozzo was running down the evidence they had to support that theory when Ducky called up from autopsy. Would Gibbs mind coming down for a few moments? No rush, just when he had the chance?

Since Gibbs hadn't gone to the scene, he waited until DiNozzo finished and his team had their orders before heading down. To his surprise, the Marine's body was not on the table.

"Not started or already done?" Gibbs asked as he swung into the room.

"Already done," Ducky said from his desk. "Not a difficult exam, poor boy."

"And?" Gibbs asked. He leaned against the edge of Ducky's desk as the medical examiner turned in his chair.

"Suicide," Ducky said. Gibbs frowned.

"Say again?"

"The wound in his chest was self-inflicted," Ducky said. "Without a doubt. He stabbed himself, then moved about the house for several minutes knocking things over before he fell where we found him and exsanguinated."

"Fair enough," Gibbs said. Ducky knew what he was doing. If he said the wound was self-inflicted, a hard look at the evidence his team had gathered would bear that out. Case closed.

"Should be able to clear it off your case load fairly quickly," Ducky said, as if he'd heard Gibbs' internal rumination.

"Thanks, Ducky," Gibbs said and readied his crutches to stand.

"Just a minute, Jethro," Ducky said. Gibbs settled back. "You're looking much better than you did last time I saw you."

"Couple good nights' sleep will do that for you," Gibbs said.

"Still having headaches?" Ducky asked.

"Nope."

"Nightmares?" Gibbs gave him a look.

"Who told you?" he asked irritably. "DiNozzo or McGee?"

"Neither one of them would dare risk your legendary wrath by sharing such secrets," Ducky said with a smile. "It was in your medical report from Bethesda. Dr. Gelfand was quite worried."

"No more nightmares," Gibbs said, resolved to the knowledge that Ducky, at least, had noble intentions. "They came, they went."

"Do you know why?" Ducky asked.

"Do I care?" Gibbs asked.

"Of course you do. You're one of the most introspective creatures I've ever met, and the lack of control over your own mind would have been driving you insane."

Gibbs made a sound of amused agreement. "It was Nicky," he said. "Probably causing the headaches, too."

"Probably," Ducky agreed. "How is our friend?"

Earlier in the week, Gibbs had followed through on his promise to Gregor to get Nicky a Yard pass. He'd checked in a couple of times, and each time found Nicky happily working in the BX. Looked like he was going to be fine.

"He's fine. Working at the BX, staying at Gregor's house. He seems happy."

"When did that happen?"

"Over the weekend. And before you ask, that's when the nightmares stopped, too."

"Huh," Ducky said. "Why do you suppose he got to you like that?" he asked not-so-innocently.

Gibbs shook his head. "Sorry, Duck. Not in the mood."

Ducky chuckled. "Long as you know the reason," he said, and moved on. "How's your knee?"

"Holding," Gibbs said. Truth was, the pain had come and gone over the past week. He didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It was convenient, not to have to keep taking pain killers. But Gibbs knew that just because it wasn't talking to him didn't mean the knee was happy. Far from it. There had been times when a sudden total numbness had settled over his knee and most of his lower leg. Two days ago, he'd been worried enough about it to have Ducky take another look. Ducky had "tsked" at him, but after more than the strictly necessary amount of poking and prodding, had pronounced it not dangerous.

"I understand you're planning to make the final arrests in your conspiracy case tomorrow?" Ducky asked.

"Yup," Gibbs said.

"So the case will wrap up this weekend?"

"That's the plan," Gibbs agreed.

"Wonderful. The orthopedic surgery department at Bethesda is expecting you at 7:30 Tuesday morning."

"What?" Gibbs asked with more than a touch of surprise.

"It's been a week since your injury. The time for surgery has long passed. I understand you might need Monday for paperwork, so I took the liberty of scheduling you for Tuesday."

Gibbs shook his head. Part of him wanted to explain to the medical examiner exactly how he felt about people meddling in his life. The other part – the larger part – recognized that he occasionally needed his friends to call him on it when he didn't take care of himself.

"Whatever," Gibbs said, borrowing a line from DiNozzo. He stood and headed out. Behind him, Ducky smiled. That had gone better than he'd hoped. Jethro Gibbs could be a stubborn mule sometimes, and he rarely gave his physical and mental health the attention it deserved. So occasionally, Dr. Donald Mallard had to step in and take his reins. So to speak.

* * *

Fredrick called just after 2 p.m. on Thursday to say he would meet with the priest after dinner and make his final play. He'd been priming Thayer for a couple of days, he said, and he was confident he could get what they needed tonight. Whether he managed it or not, Gibbs would keep his promise to Capt. McNally and remove the priest from the ship before they shoved off for the Atlantic crossing tomorrow, with or without the confession.

The director tried again that afternoon to make Gibbs take time off, and again, Gibbs refused. He would be there when the arrest went down. He would look the priest in the eye and be sure he knew his immoral mission – and his life as he knew it – was over.

Late in the day, Gibbs made the tough decision not to take his entire team to Florida. He knew they all wanted to be there for the final arrest. And God knew they all deserved it. But he needed someone to physically coordinate the takedowns from MTAC, and someone to be sure all the I's were dotted and T's crossed while they did it. Gibbs would take DiNozzo to Jacksonville where he and Fredrick would make the arrest while Gibbs stayed out of the line of fire. McGee would do the MTAC thing, and Ziva would coordinate with the locals, whatever their stripe.

Gibbs sent them all home as soon as the reports on the Marine's suicide were done. The only thing left to do before they arrested the priest was to watch the rest of the attack videos and document their contents. Gibbs had McGee set the computer up in the conference room before he left. Gibbs would do this last thing himself, then cab it home.

Though they had matched the file numbers on Ramey's flash drive to the names of the victims days ago, Gibbs was watching the videos at random. First up was the second attack in the timeline, the one that took place in Jamaica. It was like all the previous ones: a sailor caught unaware, a vicious beating, words of hate. It added nothing to their case except visual evidence of the identities of the two attackers named in the log. Right from the beginning, they didn't seem to be nervous about putting their faces on camera.

Next was the video of the attack on Petty Officer Demmings, the sailor whose attack had not ended his career. The final moments were playing out when the conference room door opened softly. Gibbs swiveled in his chair.

"Hey Boss," DiNozzo poked his head through. "Coffee?" As he stepped into the room, he held up a cardboard carrier with two large cups and a paper sack from DC Beans.

"Thought I sent you home," Gibbs said. But he took the cup DiNozzo held out.

"Did you?" DiNozzo said. "You watching the videos?" He took a seat just down the table from Gibbs and opened the sack. Pulling out a large cookie, he pushed the bag toward Gibbs.

"Yeah," Gibbs said in response. He peered into the bag and took out a chocolate chip.

"How far have you gotten?" DiNozzo asked.

"Three to go." He took a bite. Soft and chewy, not too much, still slightly warm. Nice.

"Need me to take notes?" DiNozzo asked.

"I got it," Gibbs said. He paused, wondering why DiNozzo had returned. Tony bit into his cookie, watching Gibbs while he chewed. When his mouth was again empty, he said "What?"

With a mental shrug, Gibbs clicked on the next video. It was the first of the two attacks in Spain. A petty officer first who'd suffered a skull fracture and traumatic brain injury – though they hadn't been calling them that at the time. This was the first appearance of the now-dead Curren, who'd participated in two other attacks including the one on Chief Goetz. Curren and two other attackers were using short saps to hit the victim about the head and shoulders. The camera was close enough to the attackers this time that the agents could hear the sounds of each impact. A particularly hard one made a sound like a smashing melon and DiNozzo flinched, mumbling a curse under his breath. Gibbs felt the anger rising again.

When that one finished, Gibbs paused before clicking to the next. He closed his eyes and took several breaths. He could hear DiNozzo's breathing nearly in sync with his own. Gibbs gave it a minute, then opened his eyes, shook his head, and they moved on.

Second-to-last was Chief Goetz. The two agents watched in silence. Goetz had been right about the attackers' intentions: Fazio, Lewiston and Curren had made several comments during the attack about making sure he'd never run into battle again. They were clearly making sure his legs bore the brunt of the damage. Gibbs gulped at his coffee as the tape hit the end.

With nothing left but Ortiz, Gibbs steeled himself for what was certainly likely to be the worst of the bunch. He clicked open the video and waited. Right from the beginning this video was different than the others. All of the previous videos had begun with the victim walking toward them in the dark. In this video it was clearly late in the day, but still light. The camera was bouncing hard as the cameraman ran through a thin crowd of people toward something. A sudden stop, and the camera swung rapidly sideways in a motion that made Gibbs slightly dizzy. After a second, the camera settled on two men sitting on a concrete bench by the side of a busy street. Gibbs recognized the men as two of the three sailors who'd attacked Major Ortiz.

The camera watched the men for several minutes, occasionally drifting slightly as if the cameraman was adjusting his position. They were dressed in civilian clothing, jeans and button-downs, nothing that stood out. One was wearing a small day pack. The other had a fanny pack around his waist, resting in his lap. Traffic flowed by noisily in the haphazard pattern of a city growing faster than its infrastructure could handle. Other people entered the frame, passing through or stopping to stand in small groups. The agents could hear murmurs of conversation in what could have been several languages. They were all waiting for something. A bus, Gibbs realized, as he noticed the small sign on a post in the corner of the picture. The camera suddenly turned, and focused on two more men walking down the street toward the bus stop. As they grew closer, Gibbs realized it was Ortiz and Hartman, the third sailor who'd participated in this attack. They were walking mostly side by side with Hartman slightly behind Ortiz. They, too, were dressed in casual street clothes. They were talking animatedly. There was no apparent duress in Ortiz's body language until he saw the other two sitting on the bench. Then Ortiz's step stuttered and he stopped. Hartman pushed up behind him and Ortiz was jolted slightly forward. He looked over his shoulder at Hartman and they could see the sudden change in his demeanor. Fear.

"He knew it was coming," DiNozzo said softly. Ortiz tried to turn away but Hartman's position behind him kept him from going that way. Ortiz managed a half step to the side before Hartman's hand came slightly around Ortiz's body and pushed something small and square into his ribs. Ortiz froze and the fear increased.

"What is that?" Gibbs asked. DiNozzo snatched up the remote for the plasma and paused the playback, then backed it up slightly and zoomed in.

"A stun gun," DiNozzo said.

"Play it," Gibbs said, and DiNozzo did. Gibbs wondered where they'd gotten the weapon from. The stun gun was often carried by military police, but none of these men had ever been in that role. Something new to follow up on, and Gibbs made a note.

Hartman moved Ortiz to the bus stop and the other two sailors stood. They made a huddle around Ortiz. Words were exchanged, too quiet for the microphone to pick up. Ortiz was looking around, seeking an out.

Before he could find one, the bus pulled up. It was modern, red and silver. The crowd surged forward and began to board. Instead of joining them, the three sailors moved with the Major further toward and past the camera. The camera turned and followed the other men up the street. The picture bounced more smoothly this time. Walking, not running.

Hartman kept the stun gun lodged against Ortiz's ribs as they moved down the street. The men continued speaking, but the cameraman was too far back to hear. As they approached the opening to a narrow alley between two multi-story buildings, Ortiz made a break for it. He lunged sideways, managed two steps, then his body arched hard away from Hartman as the sailor hit him with the stun weapon. Ortiz staggered and was caught by his two captors. They moved him bodily into the alley, the cameraman started to run to catch up, and the beating began.

From there, it was like all the others: violence, hate, testosterone run amok. The three sailors seemed to almost be competing against one another to see who could hit Ortiz hardest. Ortiz tried to fight back, but the effects of the stun gun were far more debilitating than the flash-bangs used on the other victims.

The attackers finally ran out of steam. Like on the other videos, there were shouts of jubilation and close-ups of the unconscious, battered, and bleeding Marine. Then, they left and the video blacked out.

"No sexual assault," DiNozzo said. Gibbs was about to comment when there was a crackle of sound and some distortion on the screen, then the picture returned.

"What are you doing here, sir?" came a voice off camera. There was no one on camera, and it took a second to realize what they were looking at: Legs in the dark. A sideways view of the dimly lit legs of two people. The camera had been turned on, but not raised.

"So you took care of it?" A second voice.

"Yes sir," the first voice said.

"He'll never forget this lesson, that's for sure." A third voice, a clear tone of pride.

"Where is he?" the second voice again. Gibbs wasn't sure, but he thought it sounded like...

"We left him in an alley about five klicks south. Off Jumeirah Road and 73rd A Street." The first voice.

"Was he conscious?" the second voice asked.

"Doesn't that sound like Thayer?" DiNozzo asked suddenly. Gibbs nodded and felt a sudden spike of hope.

"No sir." The third voice.

"Will he be alright?" The second voice again. Definitely Thayer.

"Someone will find him," the third voice said. "They'll take him to the hospital. He's got ID on him."

"Very well," Thayer said. "Go on aboard."

A chorus of 'yes sirs' and the camera started swinging, the picture still sideways. It stopped, swung up, and focused on a man walking away. It was a parking lot full of cars, next to a road. The man walking away raised an arm and a white taxi immediately pulled over. As he pulled open the rear door of the cab, the man looked back toward the camera for a second.

"Freeze that!" Gibbs barked, and DiNozzo jabbed at the remote. By the time he got it stopped, the man was again turned away, getting into the cab. DiNozzo fiddled with it until the face was showing, then zoomed in. The face was not well lit, and the zooming made it lose some definition, but it was clear enough: Thayer.

"Damn," Gibbs said.

"Why didn't we know we had this?" DiNozzo asked.

"Ramey said he didn't watch all the videos," Gibbs said.

"And since he was taking the notes for the log, if he hadn't seen it, it wouldn't have been there," DiNozzo said. "But the log does talk about the meetings they had after Ortiz didn't show up. Wonder why none of them mentioned running into the priest on the way home."

"Probably didn't make the connection," Gibbs said. His mind was spinning. What did this mean to their case? Was it enough to nail Thayer? He focused his thoughts. It was something. Not enough by itself, but definitely something. Finally. It would be really difficult for Thayer to maintain his claim of complete innocence in the face of this. And it might be the wedge Fredrick needed to get the confession.

"I'd better call Fredrick," DiNozzo said, and Gibbs nodded.

* * *

to be continued...

Sorry for the long delay, my friends. This chapter is being posted from a specialty hospital 250 miles from my home. Since the last post, Dad was cycled through ICU then step down twice due to hospital acquired infections before the hospital basically gave up on him. They stopped making any attempt at progress and focused on stabilizing him and getting him out of their hospital. At 12 weeks and six days post fall, he was transferred to a new hospital that specializes in getting patients off ventilators. In the past week, there has been some improvement. But it's painfully slow.

Nonetheless, I finally finished this chapter and wanted to post. Please keep reviewing. I love hearing from you, and treasure every comment.

Oh, and here's a challenge (probably not a big one): The "Watcher" concept was NOT from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which I've never seen and didn't know used it. Anyone know what TV Series I did borrow it from? (No internet search cheating...) Hint: You'd know it on both sides of the Pond. :o)


	47. Part 44

** PLEASE NOTE:** If you're reading this as it's being posted, you need to be aware that I made a small change to the last section, explaining the origin of the "One Less" notes. It's at the end of Ramey's interrogation. I didn't realize until way too late that I'd neglected to put it in. It really has no bearing on the rest of the story, and it's only a couple of sentences. But if you're interested, please do go back and read that part again.

**RECAP:** When last we saw our heroes, Gibbs and DiNozzo had just finished watching all the videos of the attacks. They were left reeling at the cruelty men were capable of. They had also just discovered the first piece of concrete evidence of the priest's involvement: video showing him returning to the scene of the attack on Major Ortiz. It's not much, but it's something. That was Thursday night. Today, Friday, Gibbs and DiNozzo will head to Florida to remove Father Thayer from the Roosevelt before she starts across the Atlantic. Whether they have enough evidence or not, they have run out of time. McGee and Ziva will remain behind in Washington to coordinate the simultaneous arrest of all of the remaining players in the conspiracy. By nightfall on this day, it will all be over.

* * *

**One Less - Part 44**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

The morning came too quickly. Gibbs slept in short spurts, waking often when dream reruns of the videos he'd watched became too much. He tossed and turned, considered the basement, rejected it as too much trouble with the crutches, fell asleep, woke up, and tossed and turned again. He gave up trying half an hour before his alarm was to go off and slowly descended to the kitchen. He put coffee on and stepped outside for the paper. Bending down to get it off the porch was way more work than it ought to be and Gibbs nearly took a header down the steps before catching himself on the porch rail. Resting against the doorway to wait out the adrenalin rush, Gibbs examined the sky. It was still more than an hour before dawn, the coldest part of the night, and there was a gusty wind blowing. He could see no stars. Had there been a storm forecast? Honestly, he had no idea. They'd been so consumed by this case, Gibbs wasn't sure when he'd last noticed a news report.

He drank two mugs of coffee while reading the paper. The usual trouble overseas, murder and mayhem, hockey scores, more Washington bull. And yep, snow in the forecast.

Gibbs folded the paper and stared out the back window into the dark. He let his eyes glaze and his mind turn inward. This morning they would fly to Jacksonville, meet up with Fredrick, and arrest Thayer. If Fredrick had the confession, they'd use it to put him away for a long time. If not, Gibbs would take shot at him himself. Either way, the priest would be off the Roosevelt and in custody by nightfall.

He sometimes wondered, in these last few hours before a takedown, if suspects had any idea how their lives were about to change. On a naval ship in Florida was a man who'd been participating in a series of violent crimes for years, in what he thought was total impunity. He had been getting away with it for so long that even if there was a small part of his mind that occasionally reminded him that he could get caught, he believed he never would. In this case, Thayer believed he was protected by the 'holiness' of his mission.

Right now, about 700 miles away, Thayer was... Gibbs glanced at the clock over the stove... just about to begin his day. Breakfast would be available shortly. He would get up, shower, get dressed, tidy his rack, maybe do a little praying or other priestly stuff. He would be totally unaware that in six hours or so his career in the navy, his ministry as a priest, and his freedom would all be something he spoke about in the past tense. Sometimes Gibbs almost felt sorry for the dirtbags in the last few hours before a takedown of this kind. The wrath of Gibbs was about to descend and they had no clue.

Early in his career with NCIS Gibbs had arrested a guy for financial fraud. The sailor had falsified some records in the pursers office, and when the problem was discovered had tried to bribe one of the investigators. The investigator had agreed to accept the bribe and arranged to meet the sailor at an off-base location to exchange the money for a crucial piece of evidence. Thing was, the investigator had immediately reported the attempted bribe, and from that point forward the whole thing was a set up. The team had watched the suspect the night before the sting as he went to his bank, withdrew the bribe money, then returned home to his wife and baby. They'd had him under surveillance as he got up that morning, said his goodbyes, and left his house for what would be the last time. The sailor had woken up that morning believing he was about to meet with a man who'd make all his troubles disappear. He'd believed that everything was wonderful. That he was going to get away with it. When they'd arrested him two hours later, the shock on his face was actually funny. He'd truly had no clue. Gibbs had almost felt sorry for the guy.

The sound of a car pulling up to the house drew Gibbs out of his head. A few moments later, feet on the porch and the front door slipped open.

"Oh, hey boss," DiNozzo said. "You're up."

"You're early," Gibbs said.

"Brought breakfast," DiNozzo said and held up takeout bags. Gibbs gestured to the table and DiNozzo started dealing out the food. He grabbed a mug of coffee and refilled Gibbs' before taking a seat.

They ate in companionable silence. When the food was gone, Gibbs hobbled back up the stairs to shower. At least the crutches wouldn't be around much longer. Four days until surgery, a couple days post-surgery – less if he could get away with it – and that'd be that. He supposed he'd have to spend a couple of weeks in a flexible brace. He'd had that pleasure after his first knee injury. It had sucked, but at least he'd been able to walk. Gibbs figured he'd gotten through it once, he could do it again.

With DiNozzo good-naturedly helping with the hard parts and Gibbs trying not to grumble more than strictly necessary, they were ready to go in plenty of time. They made it to the airport and through security with more than an hour to kill before their flight. Their firearm carry authorizations had received far more scrutiny than Gibbs felt was necessary considering they'd been accompanied by federal credentials. But such was the state of fear these days, he supposed.

The flight was smooth and landed only five minutes behind schedule. By 10 a.m., they were through baggage claim and out in Florida's winter heat. Fredrick was waiting for them. He was leaning against a blue passenger van with US NAVY stenciled on the door in yellow, its four-ways flashing. An airport security officer was standing only a few feet away. He didn't look happy and the agents guessed Fredrick had been there awhile. Fredrick was ignoring him.

"We got him," Fredrick said when they were in earshot. "He fell for it. Hook, line and sinker."

"What'd he tell you?" Gibbs asked. DiNozzo took the crutches and Gibbs slid up onto the front passenger seat. Tony tossed their stuff into the back and climbed in after it. Fredrick started the van and merged into the traffic.

"I laid it out like we planned, told him I'd been aware of their mission, that when you showed up on board, I'd done what I could to obstruct your efforts." Fredrick deftly avoided a merging airport shuttle amid much blaring of horns. "I told him I believed in what he was doing, that it was for the good of the Navy, blah, blah, blah. Then I offered to help him. It took a little convincing, but he eventually broke. He told me he's been directing the whole thing, right from the beginning."

"How's he doing it without anyone knowing?" DiNozzo asked from behind Fredrick.

"He said he 'prays' with one of the players, tells him about the target's orientation, plants the seed. He said he intentionally keeps it vague, to protect himself and the integrity of the mission. If the guy hasn't participated before, the priest tells him to talk to one of the old players, ask for advice. If he's been out before, Thayer tells him to contact the watcher."

Which explained why no one person knew the priest was pulling the strings, Gibbs figured. The priest made sure he always talked to someone different. On the other hand, if Lewiston had been both Watcher and participant, he probably knew. Which would be useful at trial if they could get Lewiston to roll over.

"You get enough details to make sure he can't explain it away?" Gibbs asked.

"Plenty. And I got it on tape."

"Where's Thayer now?" DiNozzo asked.

"Everyone's aboard. There was no liberty at this stop. Far as I know, he's still working on the additional training Cmdr. Lawson arranged."

"We'll listen to it, then call the takedown," Gibbs said. Fredrick nodded. He was careful to keep the frustration at Gibbs' need to check up on him off his face. But something must have shown.

"If it's as you say, we'll call it even," Gibbs said. This time, Fredrick's nod was satisfied.

* * *

Fredrick boarded the ship first. Gibbs and DiNozzo waited in the van while Fredrick confirmed Thayer's presence in his office and called them with an all clear. They went as quickly as they could to the Agent Afloat's office. The Washington agents took seats at the small table while Fredrick cued up the recording he'd made of his conversation with the priest.

It was exactly as Fredrick had said. Gibbs listened with a growing sense of satisfaction as Thayer buried himself. Fredrick had an interrogation style that made the conversation seem natural and non-threatening. If Gibbs hadn't known, he'd have believed they were just two friends conspiring to get away with murder.

"Good job," Gibbs said when the recorder clicked off. "That's a damn good job."

Fredrick's eyes widened, and he glanced at DiNozzo, who smiled and gave him a satisfied nod.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said.

"Yeah Boss," DiNozzo replied.

"Take Agent Fredrick and bring Cmdr. Thayer up here, will you?"

"On it," DiNozzo said. He stood, a pleased Fredrick following in his wake.

Gibbs flipped open his phone. No service. He pushed Fredrick's wheeled chair over to the desk and used the landline to call McGee at the Navy Yard. The takedown of the 15 outstanding suspects was a go.

That done, Gibbs went back to the recorder and rewound it, searching for a particular section. He sat back to listen to it again.

"Just out of curiosity, how'd it start? How'd you choose this mission?" Fredrick's voice.

"It chose me," Thayer said. There was a long pause before he continued. "I had a friend, a mentor. I'd worked for him for years. We studied the Bible together, prayed together. We were very close."

Another long pause. "He led me into temptation. The evil inside him seduced me, carried me deep into sin. It was the furthest I'd ever strayed from the path of God since taking my vows. By the time I was delivered, he had nearly destroyed my walk. In the aftermath, while I was struggling to regain my footing, begging God's forgiveness, I heard from God. He told me what I had to do. He told me I had to remove myself from my friend's evil influence. Then, I had to perform penance, to show that I understood the depth of my sin, that I was worthy of forgiveness." A pause, a breath.

"My penance was to devote myself to ridding the Navy of the immorality that was threatening to destroy it. My mission was born."

Gibbs hit stop, rewind, and listened again.

"He led me into temptation. The evil inside him seduced me..."

Gibbs hit stop again and closed his eyes. 'Seduced.' An odd choice of words. At first blush, the meaning could be metaphorical: that the nature of his friend's sin had been so attractive that Thayer had followed him into it. But considering the nature of the mission and the rest of Thayer's 'confession', Gibbs thought it likely that the statement was literal, that the priest had actually been seduced. Gibbs' gut was telling him this was the catalyst. He'd bet a week's pay that the friend was gay. That he'd seduced Thayer into having a homosexual fling, or at the very least, sparked homosexual impulses Thayer hadn't previously known he possessed. Guilt was a powerful motivator. Guilt combined with shame even more so. Throw in 'immoral' sexual urges, and you had the trifecta. The perfect recipe for a vendetta.

The alert tones from 1MC sounded. "Attention all hands. Commander Thayer, report to the infirmary, forthwith. Commander Thayer, infirmary, forthwith. That is all."

That was odd. DiNozzo and Fredrick should have had him in custody already. On the other hand, the business of the ship continued, even when the business of the ship was about to be rocked. Thayer could have been anywhere on the ship when the agents went looking for him. It might even have been them calling him to the infirmary. It's not likely the priest would ignore a call there. They'd find him. With the ship locked down, he wasn't going anywhere.

Returning to his theory, Gibbs looked at all the angles. It would certainly explain the genesis of the conspiracy. Thayer had been tempted, maybe even acted on temptation, and it lead to his mission to rid the navy of others that might tempt him. Yeah, that worked.

He used the desk phone to place another call to the Navy Yard. Abby was there, solidifying the forensics they had and keeping McGee and David company.

"Labby," Abby answered. As always, her terminally cheerful voice made him smile, if only for a moment.

"Need you to research something for me," Gibbs said.

"Library or internet?" Abby asked.

"Commander Thayer's SRB. Look at his immediate superiors starting with the date of the first attack and going back."

"Coming right up," she said, and started typing. "What am I looking for?"

Gibbs took a breath. "Hell, I don't know. See if anything weird happened to any of them. Would have been someone he worked with for a long time."

"One order of hinkiness coming up," Abby said. "You want service while you wait?"

"I've got time," Gibbs said. He leaned back in the chair and listened to the combined noise of Abby's music on low, clattering keys, and Abby talking to herself. It took several minutes before she spoke directly to him.

"Ah ha!" she said. "How about unwitnessed man overboard, body never recovered? Where does that fall on your hinky meter?"

"Pretty high. Details?"

"He was a chaplain commander," Abby answered him. "Thayer's supervisor when he was a lieutenant commander, for almost three years. He was Lutheran. Anyway, he disappeared one night while the ship was in the Persian Gulf in support of Operation Enduring Freedom right after 9/11. Hey, you know they were at sea for 160 days without a port call on that cruise?"

"The Ironman. I know. What happened?"

"He was last seen walking on the fantail just before nightfall. There were no air ops scheduled, and no one was paying particular attention to a sailor out watching the sunset. Deck watch saw him, then didn't see him. They assumed he'd gone below. He wasn't reported missing until the next morning. By then, there was no sign of him. He was declared lost at sea."

"Any other investigation?"

"They talked to everyone who claimed to have seen him that night, including Lt. Cmdr. Thayer, who was reportedly out there with him the last time deck watch saw him. Got nowhere. That was it."

"That's probably who I'm looking for. Check the guy before that," Gibbs said. More tapping keys.

"The guy before that's still in the Navy. Nothing hinky there. Before that, he had the same supervisor back to 1995."

"Was he seen alone after he was seen with Thayer?" Tap tap.

"Yes. The deck log says two individuals walking the deck at 1900 before the sun set – Thayer admitted that was him – one individual seen at 1930 in the dusk, none at 2000 hours."

"Alright. Thanks."

"So have you arrested that not really a man who doesn't deserve to be called a priest yet?" Abby asked.

"Working on it," Gibbs said, and disconnected.

The alert tones sounded again. "Attention all hands. Security team to the gangway, on the double. Security team to the gangway, on the double. That is all."

Before the end tones sounded, the phone on the desk started ringing. Gibbs snatched it up.

"NCIS," he barked.

"There's something going on on the gangway, with Thayer," DiNozzo's voice, bouncing like he was running somewhere.

"What?" Gibbs said. He felt a sudden tug at his gut so strong as to almost be a premonition. Something bad was about to happen.

"Not sure. We're on our way there up now. We went to his office to pick him up, but he wasn't there. His RP said he got a phone call and took off in a big hurry. We stat paged him to the infirmary, figured he wouldn't ignore that. We were waiting for him there when the XO paged Fredrick, reporting a disturbance involving Thayer. She told us to get up there, double time."

"I'm on my way," Gibbs said. "DiNozzo?"

"Yeah Boss?"

"Be careful," Gibbs said. "He has to know we know, and he's gotta be figuring he doesn't have much else to lose."

"Copy that," DiNozzo said and hung up. Gibbs grabbed his crutches and levered himself upright, then cursed aloud. It was going to take him forever to transition across the ship, up and down ladderwells, over kneeknockers, and through narrow spaces. He picked up the phone again, calling the bridge. McNally's XO answered.

"Commander, Agent Gibbs. What do you know about the situation on the gangway?"

"Not much. Cmdr. Thayer's got a gun, and a hostage. He's demanding to be let off the ship. The Captain's on his way there."

"Damn it," Gibbs swore. "I need to be up there. Can you send me an escort and authorize an evac elevator?"

"Where are you?"

"NCIS office."

"I'll have someone there in three."

* * *

to be continued... very soon.


	48. Part 45

**Note**: The chapters are getting shorter now, because we're heading for the end. Good news is, they're all coming up tonight. Enjoy!

* * *

**One Less - Part 45**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs hung up and stepped out into the passageway. True to the XO's word, a young airman came jogging up less than three minutes later.

"This way, sir," the young man said, and they took off. The airman led the way down the length of the ship toward the stern, then through a doorway to a cargo elevator. Less than eight minutes after DiNozzo's call, Gibbs was swinging across the hangar to where a small group of personnel was gathered near the hatchway leading out to the deck. Gibbs instantly picked out the Captain, the ship's Command Master Chief, and a lieutenant in full tactical gear. Must be the CO of the security team. DiNozzo and Fredrick were peeking outside from opposite sides of the hatchway, guns drawn. DiNozzo held his down next to his leg, Fredrick had his next to his head, muzzle pointed at the upper deck. A pair of corpsman were tending to a lieutenant junior grade with a head wound. Knots of other personnel hung in groups around the bay.

"What's the situation?" Gibbs asked as he approached. The CMC spoke first.

"Cmdr. Thayer tried to leave the ship. The deck officer stopped him, said no one gets off without the Captain's permission. He claimed to have permission, and when the deck officer turned to make a call to confirm, Thayer coldcocked him. He smashed his head into the wall, knocked him out." He gestured to the downed man.

"Crew members working the equipment onload saw it go down. As Thayer started down the gangway, one of them on the dockside ran up it and tackled him, shoving him back on board. One of the shipside crew hit the emergency draw and grabbed the key before running for help. Thayer got the upper hand and pulled a gun. He's out there now, threatening to shoot the man he's got if someone doesn't bring the key back and redeploy the gangway. Security officers managed to evac the deck officer, but it's a standoff with the hostage."

"Damn it," Gibbs said. This was not the way he wanted this to go down. He felt his gut tighten again. "Where'd he get the gun?"

"It's his," Fredrick said over his shoulder. "He's on the record with a Browning nine mil. Two clips."

"Who else is out there?"

"My security force is in place," the lieutenant said. "Six men, all armed."

"Pull them back," Gibbs said.

"What?" the lieutenant and the Captain said simultaneously.

"Leave one man out there. Tell him that if it looks like Thayer's going to shoot the hostage, put him down. Otherwise, he should stand by."

"For what?" the Captain asked.

"My team will take it from here."

"My men are trained and experienced in tactical hostage rescue," the lieutenant objected. "You could use them out there."

Gibbs shook his head, then focused on the captain. "Captain, the three of us are already going to be two guns too many if it goes bad." He glanced at the lieutenant. "I'm sure your people are well trained, but I don't know them, and I don't want anyone out there that I don't know." Back to McNally. "We came here to arrest Thayer. That is what we are going to do."

The Captain held Gibbs' eye for a moment before nodding smartly. "Very well. Lieutenant, pull your men back."

"Thank you," Gibbs said to the Captain. He turned his attention to the junior officer. "Do your men have radios?"

"They do."

"We'll need them. And vests."

The lieutenant nodded, then tapped his headset radio and delivered the orders.

"DiNozzo, take the lead," Gibbs said. As much as he wanted to get out there and be in charge, he knew it wouldn't be wise given his physical condition.

"Got it. Fredrick, take a position on the flight deck, put eyes on him from above. Don't shoot unless you have to. I'll do the talking from down here."

Fredrick nodded his understanding. The members of the security force began coming through the hatch, clearly confused as to why they were being recalled.

"I need three of you to give their radios and vests to these agents, then all of you stand by in case you're needed," the lieutenant instructed. The men – which included one woman, it turned out – complied, though it was obvious from their faces that they weren't happy about it. When each of the agents had a headset radio, and each was wearing a borrowed bullet-proof vest, the Captain put a hand on Gibbs' arm.

"That young man out there is my responsibility," McNally said. "I left Thayer on board at your insistence. If you let him get hurt..."

"We won't, sir," Gibbs said.

"See that you don't."

Gibbs nodded, then turned to his small team. He didn't know how Fredrick would perform in a fight, but he'd proven himself capable in other ways during this case. He did know how DiNozzo would perform, and trusted him implicitly. It wasn't the team he was used to, but it would have to do.

"Go," he said finally. Fredrick took off across the hangar bay toward the ladderwell to the flight deck. DiNozzo slipped outside. Gibbs stepped into the space they'd vacated to watch.

* * *

Thayer's arrival had obviously interrupted equipment onloading. A dozen or more pallets of equipment and supplies were sitting in no particular order on the deck. A small crane had been swinging the pallets onto the deck under the supervision of several cargo handlers on the pier and on board. Each of the pallets was about five feet square at the base, ranging in height from under four to over six feet, covered with cargo nets and strapping. DiNozzo figured they'd make fair enough cover.

The walkway part of this deck was about 20 feet wide. The hatchway they'd come through was the dead end of the walkway, which was formed by the outer wall of the hangar deck to the right and the ship's railing to the left. The walkway was about 60 or 70 feet long, dead-ending in another hatchway as it approached the bow of the ship. Parts of it were in shadow, covered by the overlapping flight deck above in odd geometric blocks, and parts were exposed to the sun.

Most of the pallets were toward the inboard side of the walkway, closer to the wall of the hangar bay. DiNozzo stepped quickly behind the nearest of them. Looking around the pallet, DiNozzo could see the break in the railing where the gangway was supposed to be, about 50 feet down from his position. The gangway itself was folded up in the opening. When deployed, it spanned the 20 foot gap between the ship and the pier, allowing personnel to board. It took about two minutes to extend and secure the gangway, but it could be withdrawn in under ten seconds in an emergency. The sailor who'd seen Thayer hit the deck officer and pulled the emergency draw had been thinking fast indeed.

Thayer was standing next to the folded-up gangway, his back against the railing. He had his left arm around the neck of a young sailor in a bright green jersey, a gun pressed tightly against the younger man's right temple. The priest's own body was mostly hidden by his hostage. The sailor had both of his hands locked on Thayer's left forearm. He was being very still. DiNozzo could see the strain on the young man's face as he fought the instinct to struggle.

DiNozzo moved from pallet to pallet along the wall, keeping the equipment between himself and Thayer as much as he could. The remaining security man was standing mostly behind one of the pallets about 30 feet from the priest, his gun steady and level. DiNozzo spoke into his radio to be sure the man knew he was a friendly, then gestured him back inside when DiNozzo had his attention.

"Deploy the gangway or I'll shoot!" Thayer had seen him. DiNozzo ducked behind a pallet. It looked to contain mail. Not the best protection, he figured, but it would probably slow a bullet down enough to keep it from killing him.

"Put down the gun!" DiNozzo yelled back. He heard Fredrick's voice on his radio, confirming that he was in position with a clear line of fire to Thayer.

"Deploy the gangway, or this man dies," Thayer responded with an edge of hysteria in his voice. He tightened his arm.

"We can't do that, Commander," DiNozzo said. He had his arm extended along the side of the pallet, gun ready. He was making himself a small target. Thayer hadn't moved the gun from the sailor's head, but that wasn't to say he wouldn't.

"You don't, and I'll shoot him," Thayer said. He used the muzzle of the gun to push the sailor's head further sideways, the kid's neck twisting awkwardly. The sailor's knuckles were white. Sweat was pouring down the sides of his face and DiNozzo was certain it wasn't the humidity.

"No you won't. He has nothing to do with this. Let him go, and let's figure this out."

"There's nothing to figure out. Deploy the gangway, I'll go, and no one gets hurt."

"You know that's not going to happen," DiNozzo said. He stepped across a small gap to another pallet. From the labels on the metal boxes, it looked like this one held small arms. Better, he supposed. He was less than 10 feet from the control box for the gangway, on a 25 foot diagonal to Thayer's position. The ship phone the deck officer had tried to use to call the bridge was hanging out of the control box by its cord, swaying slightly in the rise and fall of the ship in its moorings.

There was a gunshot. It pinged off the wall across from DiNozzo and sank into the pallet DiNozzo had left. Tony instinctively ducked.

"That wasn't very nice," DiNozzo called.

"You alright?" Gibbs' voice in his ear.

"Affirmative," DiNozzo said. Another shot, this one directly into the first pallet. At least one sailor was going to get a package from home with holes in it.

"Good here," Fredrick's voice, also in his ear.

"Deploy the gangway. Now!" Thayer yelled.

"No way," DiNozzo yelled back. He peeked out around the equipment. "We're not letting you take that sailor anywhere. Let him go, and we'll talk."

Thayer fired again. As DiNozzo ducked back behind the pallet, he realized that while Thayer was shooting in his general direction, he wasn't actually shooting at him. What was that about?

"Let the kid go," DiNozzo repeated.

Thayer adjusted his grip on the sailor and in the process shifted slightly sideways, exposing half his body. DiNozzo considered the possibilities. Was he a good enough shot to take Thayer down without killing him or hitting the kid? Another thought crossed his mind.

"Is there anything on these pallets that's going to blow up if it gets hit?" DiNozzo asked into his radio.

"Stand by," Gibbs' reply. There was a moment's silence, then: "Mail, small arms without ammo, personal gear of the Marine battalion that boarded yesterday, bottled water and kitchen supplies."

"Got it," DiNozzo said.

"I swear, I'll kill him!" Thayer shouted, and another bullet hit the pallet next to DiNozzo.

"I've got a shot, Boss," DiNozzo said. Thayer had moved again, further exposing himself. It would almost be easy now.

"Can you hit him without hitting the hostage?" Gibbs asked.

"Hold your fire," Fredrick's voice came sharply over the radio before DiNozzo could answer.

"What?" DiNozzo said, and Gibbs echoed him.

"He wants you to shoot him," Fredrick said.

"He wants what?" DiNozzo said incredulously.

"He's missing on purpose. He wants you to shoot him," Fredrick repeated. "Suicide's a mortal sin. But if you kill him, he still goes to heaven."

"Yeah, right," DiNozzo said. Like this guy was going anywhere but straight to hell in a handbasket. One way or the other.

"He thinks he's been doing God's work," Fredrick said. "He doesn't want to go to prison. He figures if he dies, God's gonna welcome him."

"He's right," Gibbs voice came across the radio clearly. "Hold your fire."

"So we're supposed to let him kill this kid?" DiNozzo said.

"Deploy the gangway!" Thayer yelled. "What are you waiting for?"

"He's not going to kill him," Fredrick said. "Murder's a mortal sin too."

"I think he's already blown that one," DiNozzo said.

"Those deaths were accidents," Gibbs said. DiNozzo heard something strange in his voice. He sounded like he did when Abby revealed something to him that he thought he should have already known.

"You believe that?" DiNozzo asked.

"He does. Stand down. DiNozzo, keep him talking."

Another bullet pinged off the wall near where Tony was standing, ricocheting past him. He flinched.

"He may be missing on purpose, but those ricochets are coming awfully close," Tony complained.

"Keep him talking," Gibbs repeated. "Help's coming."

* * *

From his vantage point next to the hatchway, Gibbs had watched Tony engage Thayer, heard the first shot. His gut had clenched. He'd called for status, heard both DiNozzo and Fredrick respond. He'd taken two long steps outside and leaned against a pallet, peeking around the corner. He'd watched the priest's body language, trying to assess his intent. Was he likely to shoot his hostage? Gibbs didn't think so, but he couldn't be sure.

When Fredrick put out his theory on what Thayer was doing, a piece had suddenly clicked into place. Forever ago, Gibbs had sat in a coffee shop in Washington and talked to his old C.O. about the justifications for the conspiracy. They'd spoken of true believers and someone involved who got so scared after Ferrara's death that he sought religious counsel. It wasn't the assaults that had scared him, it was the death. The assaults were justified as God's will. Ferrara's death – however accidental it might have been – was an unjustified killing. A mortal sin. It had to have been Thayer who made the call.

Which made it perfectly reasonable to believe Thayer was going to keep pushing them, trying to get one of them to kill him. Given the order to hold fire, DiNozzo wouldn't shoot unless he had no choice. Of that Gibbs was certain. Fredrick had posited the theory, so he wasn't likely to pull the trigger easily. But Thayer might push them hard enough. Especially if he kept banking shots off the bulkheads. If DiNozzo got hit with a ricochet, Fredrick would put Thayer down. And there was no way in hell Gibbs was going to let him take that easy way out.

Gibbs swung back into the hangar bay and started for the ladderwell, moving as quickly as the crutches would let him.

"Where are you going?" Capt. McNally called after him.

"Flight deck," Gibbs said.

"Why?" The Captain jogged to follow him.

"I'm going to end this before someone gets killed," Gibbs said and kept going. As he reached the base of the ladder, the Captain still on his heels, he paused and spoke again.

"Captain, keep your people under control. No one goes out onto the deck. No one fires a weapon. Got it?" He didn't have time for the niceties of rank.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Gibbs," McNally said, but he turned back.

"You and me both, sir," Gibbs muttered under his breath.

* * *

to be continued... very soon.

By the way: I am aware that the description given in this section of the USS Roosevelt at dock is not accurate for a Nimitz Class aircraft carrier. It's actually based on a cruise ship I once sailed on, modified in my mind with a hangar bay and a flight deck. However, after visiting the USS Abraham Lincoln during Navy Week and realizing how badly my description mismatched that of a modern aircraft carrier, I came across this photo of the USS Midway, a much older carrier. This does work with the details I needed. So just go with it, 'kay? (If you want to see it, copy the link and paste it in your browser, then remove the spaces to make it work.)

http: / / www. freeimageslive. co. uk/ free_stock_image/ ussmidwaycarrierjpg


	49. Part 46

**One Less - Part 46**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

At the base of the ladder to the flight deck, Gibbs abandoned the crutches. He reached up the rails and pulled. Using his hands and his good leg, he climbed the ladder as quickly as he could and balanced against the top rail. The hatchway onto the flight deck was half a dozen steps ahead. This was going to hurt.

Gibbs put only the minimum weight necessary on his bad leg, but he still felt a jarring pain with every step. He reached the hatchway and paused to catch his breath. He hoped that this was worth whatever additional damage he was doing to his knee. Not to mention the rant he was going to have to suffer through when Ducky found out.

Once through the hatchway, Gibbs could see Fredrick lying flat on one of the outcroppings sheltering the walkway below. He headed that way with a series of jerky motions and sub-vocal curses. He made it to within ten feet of Fredrick's position and dropped himself forward, landing hard on his palms. He drew his Sig before settling down onto his belly and shimmying forward toward the edge of the deck.

"Go downstairs, back up DiNozzo," Gibbs told Fredrick. Fredrick shoved his gun into its holster and squirmed backwards until he knew he couldn't be seen from below. Then he stood and ran for the hatchway. Gibbs slid into his place. He took and released several deep breaths, trying to shunt away the pain in his leg.

The flight deck had no safety rails, only 'fences:' Metal frames covered with steel cabling welded into a net pattern, mounted to the edges of the flight deck. When the ship was in port and the air wing gone, or if they held a steel beach picnic or other event on the deck, the fences were raised into safety rail position. Otherwise, they rested at a 60 degree upward angle under the edge of the deck. They were designed to catch personnel who took a misstep or were swept or blown off the deck. The cable net hurt like hell if you landed on it. But it was far better than a drop to the ocean of 80 feet or more. The fencing had the added benefit of keeping you where medevac could find you. Unlike floating on the open ocean in the wake of a carrier. Even if you did survive the fall.

The fences were up today. Gibbs looked over the edge of the deck, his eyes automatically adjusting through the cables. Gibbs could see Thayer and his hostage about 20 feet below him and down range maybe 75 feet. Math first learned in middle school, then relearned in sniper school, told him he was about 78 feet away as the bullet flew. About 26 yards. A shot he could almost make in his sleep, given the right rifle. It wouldn't be that much more difficult with his sidearm.

Gibbs pulled his credentials out of his back pocket. He stretched his arms out in front of himself and unfolded the wallet. Placing it badge up on the deckplate, he flipped the ID card holder over the badge and placed the butt of his Sig in the fold of the wallet. The side of his fist and his knuckles on both sides of the butt of the gun rested against leather. Gibbs spread his legs slightly, rolled his left foot out so the inside was resting on the deck, tried – and failed – to do the same with his right foot, and sighted down his arms. This would do. He'd certainly shot from worse platforms in his career.

Below him, Gibbs could hear Thayer's panicked voice and DiNozzo's answering calm. He could see Fredrick, behind a pallet closer to the deck rail, waiting. Gibbs took another deep breath, let it out slowly, and shunted the sounds away. He adjusted his arms slightly until he had Thayer's head squarely in his site. The sailor in Thayer's grip was all wide eyes and straining muscles. Gibbs said a silent prayer that the kid would stay still when the time came.

Thayer had pulled the sailor to his left, exposing all of his head and most of the right side of his body. Assuming their theory was correct and Thayer was trying to get them to kill him, it was pretty clear he was hoping for a clean shot. Gibbs would try to oblige him. But not the way the priest hoped, he was sure. The kill shot would be easy. Wounding him enough to put him down without risking his death; that was the trick.

It would have to be extremities, Gibbs thought as he felt himself beginning to relax and settle in. Even an otherwise benign shoulder shot could hit an artery and Thayer could bleed out before the medics got it stopped. Gibbs knew: It had almost happened to him when Ari hit him in autopsy years ago. He took another breath, clearing that thought away. So, arms or legs? Thayer's left arm was across the kid's chest. The bullets in Gibbs' gun would only stop in an arm if they hit bone, and even Gibbs wasn't that confident against a moving target. Thayer's right arm was flying all over the place as he gesticulated with the gun in his hand. No good.

Legs then. Gibbs tipped his gun sight lower. Again, Thayer's left leg was partially hidden by the sailor he held. His right was fully exposed and mostly still, bearing the majority of Thayer's weight as he braced the sailor. A downward angled shot just above his knee would blow out through the back of his calf and drop him like a deer. If Thayer didn't want to kill the sailor – Gibbs was confident he didn't – that would work. And the irony of it was pleasing, too. He found himself almost smiling at that and schooled his thoughts.

It was amazing, really, how easily he fell back into old routines. He'd been a sniper for a long time, but it had been a long time ago. He took several more deep, even breaths. Gibbs felt the pain in his knee ease and his heart rate begin to fall. Fifty-eight to sixty beats a minute was the goal. At this distance, with this gun, he would probably be fine with 70 or even 75. But on a true sniper shot – using a rifle over long distances – the muscle tremble created by a heart beating at 70 would throw off aim enough to miss a human target. At 85 beats, he wouldn't be able to hit the broad side of a barn anything more than a quarter mile away. Over 100, and his hands would actually begin to shake, making it difficult to create the concentrated force necessary to pull the trigger at all.

This shot would be considerably easier. But he still needed to focus. A few more breaths and the pain in his leg virtually disappeared. The churning in his gut settled. The muscles in his hands, his arms, his shoulders, his neck and chest, all slowly became steady and stable. He considered environmental factors: there was a slight breeze, no more than two knots, blowing fairly steadily onto the ship from the shore. A slight recalculation in his trajectory would cover that. The humidity was low. Higher humidity tended to push a bullet down, lower make it rise. He would account for that. The ship was rising and falling gently with the tide and the wake of the Coast Guard patrol boats keeping sightseers away. But he was rising and falling a the same pace, and so was Thayer. Nothing to worry about there. Relative to one another, they were all still. He narrowed his vision, his world shrinking to only what he could see past his gun site, through the four-inch square of cable netting, down 26 yards to Thayer's leg.

Rumor had it that Gibbs had retired as a sniper when his eyesight started to fail. Truth was the only thing wrong with his vision was the farsightedness that inevitably came with age. His sight over distance was fine. He'd quit sniper work because he'd grown tired of killing, pure and simple. Not that there weren't people out there who needed killing. There absolutely were. And Gibbs had never regretted a single shot he'd taken with his rifle. But it had worn on him.

It hadn't started to bother him until well after he left the Marine Corps. After retraining as a federal agent, Gibbs had been assigned to NCIS's sniper teams for awhile. He'd been as good there as he'd been in the Corps, but he hadn't been as comfortable with it. Somehow something had changed. It might have had to do with the fact that he was now killing American civilians instead of foreign combatants. Maybe it was just because he was doing it on home turf. Or maybe it was that solo mission to Mexico, when he'd gotten his justice. Maybe he just didn't have the heart for killing anymore.

In the years since, he'd killed plenty of people who needed killing. Most with a sidearm. A few with his rifle. But each one had weighed on him in ways they never had before. He'd given it up not because he couldn't do it anymore, but because he just couldn't do it anymore.

On the deck below, Thayer was growing more agitated. He undoubtedly couldn't understand why DiNozzo wasn't shooting him. It had been several minutes since Thayer had fired his own gun. Probably running low on ammo. Nonetheless, Gibbs knew he didn't have much longer. Eventually, Thayer would take the next step to force the issue and someone would get hurt. Gibbs continued to focus his breathing, slow and steady. Heart rate down to the high 60s now.

Gibbs well knew the capabilities of his weapon, a Sig Sauer P228. He knew exactly how accurate its sights were, knew the slight downward angle bullets took when they left the barrel regardless of environmental factors. He knew that after a certain distance, the twist in the barrel rifling would begin to pull the bullet off centerline. Given all that, he knew how to calculate the exact position in which to place his sites in order to hit his target. The shot was nearly a sure thing. The only wild card was the movement Thayer could make in the split second between Gibbs pulling the trigger and the bullet hitting home. It wouldn't be far, but it could be enough. Gibbs would be prepared for a follow-up shot, just in case.

Another check of his heart: 64. Good enough.

"DiNozzo," he said calmly into his radio.

"Yeah," DiNozzo came back.

"Above you to your left. I'm going to put him down. Stand by to secure him."

"Copy that," DiNozzo said. He wouldn't stray into the line of fire, and wouldn't react badly to an unexpected shot. When Thayer fell – and he would fall, even if it took two shots – DiNozzo would move in fast and neutralize any further threat Thayer might be to them or the hostage. DiNozzo's voice came again: "You see Fredrick?"

"Affirmative. Fredrick, stay where you are."

"Copy." Fredrick's reply.

Gibbs took a breath, let it out. Took another, let it out, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The bullet's flight was true. There was the sound of a shot, followed almost immediately by a cry of pain from Thayer as a blossom of blood appeared at his right knee. He fell sideways, grabbing at his leg, taking the hostage down as he hit the deck. The young sailor jerked out of his grasp just as DiNozzo arrived to kick Thayer's gun away. The priest curled up on himself, hugging his bleeding leg and screaming in pain. DiNozzo holstered his own pistol and grabbed Thayer's arms, pulling them behind his body and cuffing his wrists together. The priest continued to scream and writhe on the deckplates.

Members of the security force came flooding out onto the deck. They grabbed Thayer and pulled him to his feet, then dragged him back into the hangar bay. DiNozzo gave the hostage a hand up, made sure he was alright, then turned to look up at Gibbs. A thumbs up from DiNozzo, a nod from Gibbs.

DiNozzo appeared on the flight deck a few minutes later, holding the crutches. Gibbs was sitting up, both legs stretched out in front of himself. The pain he'd managed to suppress had come slamming back when Thayer fell. He was breathing in short gasps, trying unsuccessfully to lock it away again.

"That was some shootin', Boss," DiNozzo said, looking down at him.

"It worked," Gibbs said between breaths. His gut was finally quiet. They'd done it.

"You blew out his knee," DiNozzo said.

"I know," Gibbs said.

"They say turnabout is fair play," DiNozzo said.

"They do," Gibbs said. DiNozzo examined his boss for a second.

"You alright?" he asked. His voice was intentionally casual.

"Will be," Gibbs said. "Might take awhile."

"Need a hand?"

"Yes," Gibbs admitted. DiNozzo set the crutches on the deck and moved behind Gibbs. He crouched down and grabbed his boss around the middle, hoisting him up. Gibbs sagged back against Tony until he found his balance on his good leg. With the level of pain shooting from his knee, he didn't even try to put any weight on it. DiNozzo made sure he was stable, then grabbed the crutches and held them out.

Gibbs took them and swung forward a step. He grunted as his right foot brushed the deck and pain echoed up. Another step, another pain, and he stopped.

"Better get me a corpsman," Gibbs said, and DiNozzo's eyes widened. He moved closer to Gibbs even as he called into the radio he was still wearing and got a medic on the way.

"You gonna get that fixed sometime soon?" DiNozzo asked while he hovered beside Gibbs, watching for the slightest hint that the older man was about to fall.

"Soon as we're done with this," Gibbs said sourly.

"You already make the appointment?"

"Someone did." DiNozzo hid a smile.

* * *

to be continued... right now


	50. Part 47

**One Less - Part 47**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

It took the medics and the ship's doctor just over an hour to stabilize the damage caused by Gibbs' bullet. As Gibbs had predicted, it had entered to the right of Thayer's kneecap on a downward trajectory, tearing through ligaments, shredding muscle and shattering bone before losing momentum and stopping just before it would have exited out the back, several inches below his knee. The doctor removed the bullet and cleaned and dressed the wounds. Thayer would need reconstructive surgery to finish the job, but Gibbs figured that could wait. If it was good enough for Gibbs, it was good enough for that wolf in sheep's clothing.

As for Gibbs himself, the news was not good. After being carried down to the infirmary by a pair of litter-bearers, he'd allowed the doctor to examine the knee. The doctor removed the brace and carefully dragged up Gibbs' loose chinos. The pain immediately lessened as his knee relaxed into a slightly bent position. The pressure had been the source of much of the pain. New bruising had appeared over the lightening line of it from the week before, and there was more around behind his knee.

The doctor wanted to give him an x-ray, maybe an MRI, but Gibbs declined. He had surgery scheduled in three days, he informed the doctor. That, and the fact that the ship was only a few hours from departing for the Middle East, made the doctor agree to let him go without. Instead, he gave Gibbs a shot that almost instantly dulled the pain to an easily manageable level. He then changed the straight brace for one with a hinge on each side of the knee which he applied directly to Gibbs' skin. The doctor locked the hinges at an angle that matched the one his knee was resting in and told Gibbs not to put any weight on it. Period. He also told him not to take it off until he'd seen a doctor. Last, he gave him a new bottle of pain killers. Narcotics this time. Which was just as well. The pain had been significant.

While Gibbs was being examined, DiNozzo and Fredrick searched the priest's quarters, his office, and the chapel. They gathered up everything that wasn't ship's property to bring back to D.C. Their case was solid. Didn't mean they couldn't use more evidence, if they found it.

They arranged to have Thayer flown to Bethesda for follow-up treatment. Naval Hospital Jacksonville was only a few miles from the ship and could have easily handled the surgery, but Gibbs wanted to get all of them back on home turf as soon as possible. He only needed permission from the priest's commanding officer to make the transfer, and Capt. McNally was more than happy to oblige them. Gibbs sent a pair of shore-based MPs to escort him on the next available flight out of the air station.

That done, the agents prepared to go home. They met with the Captain for the last time in his office.

"Thank you," McNally said as he offered them drinks. All three agents declined. McNally put the bottle back unopened and took a seat behind his desk.

"I appreciate you ridding my ship of that..." He stopped.

"It was our pleasure," Gibbs said.

"And thank you for not killing him. It would have been too easy."

Gibbs nodded.

"What will happen to him now?" McNally asked.

"He'll be charged with murder, conspiracy, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, and anything else we can throw at him for his show today," DiNozzo said.

"Will he be convicted?"

"Yes," Gibbs said with confidence.

"So Frank will be avenged," McNally said.

"He will."

"And the others, too?"

"And the others," Gibbs agreed. "He'll pay for all of it."

"Did you get all the men involved?"

"Most of them," DiNozzo said. They'd gotten a report from Ziva and McGee while they were searching the priest's rack. Two of the 15 hadn't been where they were supposed to be when the arrest teams showed up. They were actively being sought. They'd turn up eventually.

"So that's it?" McNally asked.

"We may need a statement from you at some point, but otherwise, that's it," DiNozzo said.

"Certainly. Anything I can do." McNally paused. "Do you know why he was doing it? What started it?"

Fredrick looked at Gibbs, who nodded.

"He told me he was on a mission from God," Fredrick said and there was a small snorting laugh from DiNozzo that made all three men turn to look at him.

"Sorry," Tony said with a wave of his hand. Gibbs' eyes narrowed and DiNozzo shook his head slightly in apology. Fredrick continued.

"He said that God told him to do it as his penance, after he was led into temptation by a former mentor. I'm not sure what he meant by that."

"Do you remember the disappearance of a Chaplain Commander during the Ironman Cruise?" Gibbs said suddenly.

McNally nodded. "Of course. It's in the ship's log. And I remember hearing about it at the time. He was presumed lost at sea?"

"I think that's the mentor Thayer was talking about. I think Thayer might have had something to do with his death."

"Why?" McNally asked, and both DiNozzo and Fredrick looked at him strangely.

"The timing fits with the start of Thayer's 'mission.' When Fredrick talked to him last night, he said God told him he had to remove himself from his mentor's evil influence. They'd been at sea for almost 100 days, with no end in sight. There really wasn't any way to get away from him."

"So you think Cmdr. Thayer killed his supervisor? What, pushed him overboard?" McNally asked. They could all hear his disbelief. "He's a priest. A man of God. How could he justify that?"

Gibbs shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know how he could justify any of this. But you can be sure I'm going to ask him about it."

McNally considered that for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was resigned. "I don't envy you, Agent Gibbs. But I appreciate what you've done for my men. And for me, too. Let me know when you need me to make a statement." He stood, then continued.

"I gotta tell you: I'm going to be glad to sail off and leave this mess behind," McNally said. "Agent Fredrick, we're scheduled to shove off in... less than two hours. Will you be joining us, or do I need to ruin some other agent's week?"

Fredrick again checked with Gibbs. "He'll be ready," Gibbs said.

"Good. You'll escort these agents off ship before then?" McNally asked Fredrick.

"Yes sir," Fredrick said.

"Thank you. Good luck, gentlemen."

* * *

The agents' return flight from Jacksonville put them back in D.C. just past 9 p.m. DiNozzo drove straight to Bethesda to check on Thayer, who had left Florida hours before them. Thayer was there, on suicide watch in a secure ward. The MPs reported Thayer had been given some heavy pain killers for the trip and hadn't said more than please, thank-you, yes sir and no sir since they'd picked him up. Oh, and he'd been praying, they reported. Almost constantly. Good luck with that, Gibbs thought.

The intake doctor had examined Thayer's injury and decided the ship's physician had done a fine job of cleaning and prepping the wound. There was nothing about it that couldn't wait for regular surgical hours on Monday to repair. In the meantime, he'd be on enough pain killers to keep his lawyer from claiming cruel and unusual punishment, but not enough to let him claim diminished capacity during an interview. It was a fine line, but one the doctors in the secure unit walked well.

After the hospital, it was a quick stop at the Navy Yard to secure Thayer's belongings, then home. Dinner on the plane had been light, but it was enough. Gibbs was tired and hurting. The shot the doctor had given him had worn off before they left Jacksonville, but he hadn't taken any of the narcotics. He wanted to be horizontal before he took the heavy stuff. He needed a good night's sleep before interrogating Thayer tomorrow, and he figured the pain killers would help with that, but only if he took them then went straight to bed. He called McGee and David and told them to meet at the Navy Yard at 10 a.m. and had DiNozzo take him home.

Lying on the couch after DiNozzo left him, Gibbs waited for the drugs to do their work and thought ahead to the next day. This would be Gibbs' first conversation with the priest since the day they'd caught the case. He didn't really need anything more out of him: The confession to Fredrick had certainly sealed Thayer's fate. But Gibbs was of the belief that they could never have too much evidence. If the earlier confession was for some reason to be declared improper or otherwise inadmissible in court, having another one would come in handy.

There were also a few other things Gibbs wanted to get out of Thayer before he washed his hands of him. His involvement in the death of his former CO, for one. The role he'd played in Major Ortiz's attack. Exactly why he'd gone back into Dubai that night, and what he'd done if and when he'd found Ortiz.

Which led to his last thought before sleep claimed him: how far had Ducky gotten in arranging internment for the Major's remains?

* * *

Over the years, Gibbs had learned that his best laid plans often hinged on the cooperation of others. His plan for a solid night's sleep was interrupted while it was still dark by the ringing of his cell. Gibbs groggily rolled over to get it and fell off the couch. He cursed as his elbow and then his bad knee hit the coffee table. From the floor, he snatched the phone off the table and snapped it open.

"What?" he growled. There was a moment of silence.

"Gibbs?" a voice he didn't immediately recognize.

"What?" Gibbs said again.

"It's Ian Goetz," the voice came back. Gibbs sat up and rubbed his elbow with his free hand. He took a breath and shook his head slightly to try and clear the cobwebs.

"Gibbs?" Goetz said again.

"What can I do for you, Master Chief?" he said finally.

"Is it true?"

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"Did you arrest him?"

"Thayer?"

"Yes."

"Yes," Gibbs said. He leaned sideways against the front of the couch. News sure as hell traveled fast in this town. He rubbed his eyes in the dark.

"Did he confess?" Goetz asked.

"Yes."

"To all of it?"

"To enough of it."

"Did he say why? What started it?"

"Indirectly," Gibbs said, and yawned big.

"What does that mean?"

"It's the middle of the night. Okay if we talk about this sometime after sunup?" Gibbs said. There was a sigh from the other end.

"Okay. I'll call you in the morning."

"It is morning," Gibbs said. He was about to hang up when something occurred to him. "How'd you find out about Thayer's arrest?" he asked.

"Lewiston called me."

"What?" Gibbs said. He certainly hadn't expected that. "When?"

"About twenty minutes ago."

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"To ask me if Thayer was really under arrest. And to apologize."

"To apologize," Gibbs repeated.

"He said he'd had a lot of time to think, and he wanted to apologize for what they did to me. He said it didn't really sink in until they killed Ferrara, that what they were doing couldn't be right."

"What else did he say?"

"He said they all got so caught up in the mission, in the idea of saving the navy from evil, that he forgot real people were getting hurt. He asked me to forgive him."

"Will you?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know. I suppose I have to. Otherwise, it's my sin."

Gibbs let that sit for a minute. "I need you to do something," he said finally.

"What?"

"Right now, while it's fresh, write down as much of the conversation as you can remember. Word for word. It might be useful."

"Alright. But I want something in return."

"What?"

"Have you interrogated Thayer yet?" Goetz asked.

"No," Gibbs said.

"Good. I want to be there."

"Where?"

"When you interrogate him. I want to be there."

"No," was Gibbs' instant response.

"Why not?" Goetz asked. For the life of him, Gibbs could think of no reason other than 'because I said so.' That would be good enough for anyone on his team. He figured it wouldn't fly with Goetz.

"I'll think about it," Gibbs said. "After I wake up."

"You'll call me before you start?"

"I'll call you later," Gibbs said.

"Before you start the interrogation?" Goetz insisted.

"You're pushing it, Chief. I said I'd think about it." With that, Gibbs disconnected.

He glanced at the phone's screen, then held it out at arms' length. It was 2:45. No wonder he was so groggy. Gibbs had taken the pain meds only three and a half hours ago. Gibbs closed the phone and set it on the table, then considered his situation. Down between the table and the couch with one knee locked at an angle, it was going to be a challenge to get back up onto the couch. To say nothing of getting back to his feet. He could feel a slight buzzing in his head, like fluorescent lights, and even in the dark the edges of his vision were fuzzy. The idea of balancing on his good leg to move anywhere was a bad one.

With a sigh, Gibbs reached up onto the couch and dragged down the pillow he'd been using. He pushed it under his head, squirmed a little to get comfortable, and closed his eyes again. He was asleep in minutes.

* * *

to be continued... guess when?


	51. Part 48

**One Less - Part 48**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

Gibbs woke hours later with only minor pain. After working out the kinks caused by sleeping on the floor, he'd decided to forego the stronger narcotics in favor of one of the last of Ducky's pills. It had done the trick. Gibbs hoped that meant that whatever new damage he'd caused yesterday was minor. Otherwise, Ducky was going to kill him. Thinking of the older man made Gibbs glad it was Saturday. There was minimal chance of running into the doctor at the office. Ducky would undoubtedly have much to say about the new brace and the new damage that had made it necessary, no matter how minor it turned out to be.

With the bent brace, walking was easier. He was able to wear both boots again without his right foot touching the ground. But the act of sitting and standing was harder because he couldn't use his foot for balance. The straight brace had helped with that, probably why the orthopedist at Bethesda had chosen it. With the new damage, Gibbs could no longer comfortably straighten his leg, and he was glad for the increased support. Even if the new brace did bring its own complications.

The team gathered as instructed at 10 a.m. They exchanged updates, McGee and David listening in awe as DiNozzo described Thayer's takedown in every gory detail. Gibbs let him get it out of his system. Then it was McGee's turn.

Of the two men who'd been missed in the initial sweep, one had been apprehended overnight. It turned out the other had escaped the team that came to arrest him by mere minutes. He was actually standing in the lobby of his apartment complex in Minneapolis when the arrest team pulled up in front. He had apparently guessed what agents of NCIS were doing there and immediately fled out the back. His phone and financial records showed that he had called the Roosevelt – undoubtedly the phone call that had sent Thayer running – then bought a bus ticket to Colorado. McGee had been able to confirm he had not gotten on the bus, but from there his trail had gone cold. Still, Gibbs wasn't worried. The sailor'd had a little luck so far, and wasn't stupid enough to leave an obvious trail, but they'd find him.

Ziva informed them that she had received arrest reports from 11 of the teams and hadn't found a problem with any of them. There would be no later issues for lawyers to screw up. She was still waiting for the other three.

Gibbs told them about his late-night call from Master Chief Goetz. His team was as surprised as he had been that Lewiston had basically confessed his crimes to one of his victims. If the lawyer ever let them question him, they'd use it. If not, they'd put Goetz on the stand at trial and get him to repeat the conversation for the jury. Either way, it had been a major tactical error on Lewiston's part.

When the information exchange was complete, Gibbs put McGee on tracking down the last man, told Ziva to light a fire under the last three teams, and sent DiNozzo for coffee. He arranged for Thayer to be brought over from Bethesda. Then he called Goetz.

* * *

For half an hour after security informed Gibbs that Thayer had arrived, the senior agent and his second talked about the upcoming interrogation. An interrogation by more than one person was always a risk. The interrogators had to be very well rehearsed, or had to know each other very well. Otherwise, they'd trip over one another. This usually just resulted in a lack of success; occasionally it was dangerous. But between these two men, it wasn't an issue. Gibbs had been tag-teaming interrogations with DiNozzo for so long that for run-of-the-mill stuff, they could do it without any preparation. They played off each other seamlessly and even when one surprised the other, the suspect rarely knew. For more difficult or sensitive matters, a little pre-game briefing was normally all that was necessary. This interrogation, while certainly sensitive, wasn't really that big a deal. They already had enough to put Thayer away. Without a doubt. But it would be nice to get him to bury himself a little deeper. So they tossed around ideas on approaches, talked about possible avenues of attack, played a little 'if this, then what?' By the time Gibbs headed out of the bullpen with DiNozzo on his heels, they were ready for anything. They hoped.

While DiNozzo stopped to confer with the MP guarding the interrogation room door, Gibbs went into observation and looked through the glass. Thayer was there, sitting facing the glass in a wheelchair beside the end of the table. The priest's leg was elevated on a foot rest attached to the chair. He was wearing clothing similar to hospital scrubs that looked like cloth but were actually made out of heavy paper. It was what the navy gave those on suicide watch. His head was down. He appeared to be very relaxed. Gibbs had confirmed with Bethesda when he'd called for Thayer this morning that he was not under the influence of anything that would alter his thinking. He was sitting so still that if Gibbs hadn't made that call, he would have thought Thayer was drugged.

Beside Gibbs, Master Chief Goetz was leaning on his crutches, staring at the priest with his face only a few inches from the window. Gibbs had spent considerable time thinking through the ramifications of having Goetz witness the interrogation before he'd called him back. He understood the Master Chief's desire: There was a high degree of satisfaction to be had in hearing the person who made you a victim bury himself. It's why the families of victims sat through trials. Problem was, as a likely witness at Thayer's trial, there was the potential that his testimony could be tainted by whatever he heard here. That would give the defense a certain amount of ammunition to use against them. On the other hand, by participating in the investigation and running the attempted sting on Thayer, the defense could already make that claim. A little more inside information wouldn't really make it worse. Nonetheless, it would be better if the defense never knew Goetz was here.

"You can watch, but that's all," Gibbs said, turning to Goetz. The Master Chief had arrived twenty minutes before and Gibbs had sent him here to wait. "You do not remember or act on anything you hear. As far as he and his lawyer are concerned, you were never here. Got it?"

"Understood," Goetz said.

"Neil?" Gibbs said to the tech who would me monitoring the recording.

"I was all by my lonesome, the whole time," the tech said.

"Good." He turned back to Goetz. "Pull up a chair. It might take awhile."

Goetz nodded and the tech indicated the chair he should use. Gibbs turned on his own crutches and headed next door.

* * *

Thayer looked up as the two agents came in. His expression was as calm as his body language.

"Good morning, Commander," DiNozzo said as he closed the door behind Gibbs.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Thayer said in response.

Gibbs took his usual seat with his back to the mirror. Tony put the crutches in the corner and took the chair at the end of the table to Gibbs' left. That put Thayer facing the mirror to Gibbs' right instead of across the table where he'd usually be. Gibbs used the edge of the table to pull his chair forward and rested his bad heel on the instep of his good foot. He wasn't expecting to have to get up in any kind of hurry: On the small chance that Thayer tried to make a move, DiNozzo would take care of it.

"How are you feeling this morning?" DiNozzo asked when they were all settled.

"A little sore. But otherwise much better than I thought I would. Getting shot is a new experience for me. I understand I have you to thank for that, Agent Gibbs?"

"You didn't leave me much choice," Gibbs said.

"No, I don't suppose I did," Thayer agreed. "I admit I lost my head there for a while. I'm just glad no one else was hurt." He paused. "Your injury wasn't from yesterday, was it?" he asked Gibbs with obvious concern.

"No," Gibbs said. He was a little nonplussed about how this interrogation was beginning.

"Good. I was informed that the deck officer is also going to be fine. So I suppose we got off lucky."

"Before we go any further, I have to read you your rights under Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice," DiNozzo said. He felt the discomfort coming from Gibbs at Thayer's apparently blasé attitude and wanted to get them back on familiar ground. Thayer nodded and made a 'go ahead' motion with his hand. DiNozzo recited Thayer's rights while Gibbs watched Thayer. The priest still appeared calm, almost disinterested in the proceedings. When DiNozzo finished and Thayer had waived his right to have an attorney present and agreed to answer their questions, they began.

"You've been arrested for conspiracy to commit assault causing great bodily injury against 14 members of the US Navy and Marine Corps, one count of conspiracy to commit manslaughter in the death of Marine Major Raymond Ortiz, and one count of conspiracy to commit murder in the death of Navy Petty Officer Third Class Francis Ferrara," DiNozzo rattled off. It's what JAG had settled on during their discussions earlier in the week. "Also, several new charges from yesterday, namely: one count of assault, one count of kidnapping, one count of battery, multiple counts of reckless discharge of a firearm, multiple counts of attempted assault on federal officers – that would be us – and one count of attempted desertion from the US Navy."

"Is that all?" Thayer asked, still apparently unaffected.

"Is there more you'd like to tell us about?" Gibbs asked.

When he spoke, Thayer sounded regretful. "Unfortunately, no. If I had sins to confess, it wouldn't be to you."

"Maybe there's someone else we could invite to this meeting who you'd be more comfortable confessing to?" Gibbs suggested.

Thayer actually smiled. "I think not. But I do appreciate the offer."

"Alright. So let's talk about what you've been up to," DiNozzo said. "We've heard you've been involved in some not-so-nice extra-curricular activities."

"I've been doing God's work on behalf of the United States Navy," Thayer said. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"God's work," Gibbs said, his skepticism clear.

"That's right. As I'm sure Agent Fredrick has already explained to you." He paused. "That was you, right?"

"What was?" Gibbs asked.

"You sent Agent Fredrick to talk to me last night, under the guise of helping my mission."

"Tell us about your mission," DiNozzo said, sidestepping Thayer's question.

"I'm sure you already know as much as you need to," Thayer said.

"Tell us anyway," Gibbs said.

Thayer sighed. "I was tasked by God to remove the evil that was destroying the navy."

"And what evil would that be?" Gibbs asked.

Thayer looked at him, pursed his lips and shook his head slightly, as if disappointed in a slow student. "The evil of homosexuality. But you already know that," he said.

"So God told you it was your mission to remove homosexuals from the navy," Gibbs reiterated.

"That's right," Thayer said.

"How did he tell you this?" DiNozzo asked. "Email?"

Thayer actually chuckled.

"Of course not. My mission was revealed over the course of many weeks of prayer and study of God's word. I kept coming back to the same verses, over and over."

"Which verses?" DiNozzo asked.

"Two from Leviticus: 'Do not have sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman; that is detestable.' And: 'If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads'."

There were several moments of silence. Gibbs was very aware of Goetz's presence through the glass behind him. He'd heard the religious arguments against homosexuality many times. But he'd never before been sitting virtually beside someone of that orientation when the arguments were made. How must it feel to hear the central text of your faith quoted in a way that makes your very existence detestable?

Over the last two weeks, they'd all wondered how Goetz could stay Catholic. Still, Gibbs knew it wasn't just Catholicism. Every conservative right-wing religion in America preached a version of the same crap. That being gay was an evil, sinful choice. Good thing there were churches that weren't as intolerant. Gibbs hoped Goetz – and all the others – could find one.

"Most Bible scholars believe that Old Testament rules were superseded by the teachings of Jesus in the New Testament," Gibbs continued finally. "Isn't that what Petty Officer Ferrara was talking to you about, before he died?"

"Our conversations were confidential. But I can also tell you that the Apostle Paul preached the same truth in the New Testament book of Romans: 'Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed shameful acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their error'."

"Okay, so you heard from God," Gibbs said, moving on. He wasn't actually trying to convince Thayer of anything. He only wanted Thayer to take a position that could be attacked. "But why target homosexuals? There's a lot of evil affecting the navy. Why that mission? Why not pick on idolators, adulterers, thieves or drunkards?"

Thayer cocked his head and smiled a little. "You know your Bible, Agent Gibbs." When he saw DiNozzo's apparent confusion, Thayer continued.

"First Corinthians chapter six, verse nine. 'Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor men who have sex with men nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God'."

"That's what it says," Gibbs agreed. "So why focus on homosexuals? Surely there's more evil done by men who drink to excess and lose control than by men who are attracted to other men."

"It's not that simple," Thayer said. "With that particular sin, it's about the pervasiveness of the evil. Men who drink can be made to control themselves. With no alcohol on board ships and bases, temptation is eliminated and we can proceed with our good works. But weak men who choose to lust after other men are constantly surrounded by temptation in the navy. Even when they commit to overcoming their sin and resisting temptation, they are often led astray. They can't escape it."

"Is that what happened to you?" Gibbs asked, lowering his voice slightly and holding the priest's gaze. "You tried to resist, but you couldn't escape it?"

Thayer's eyes widened and he took a second to clear his throat. For the first time, his calm broke. "I don't know what you're taking about," he said.

"Sure you do," DiNozzo said and Thayer turned to look at him. "Who was he?"

"No!" Thayer said firmly. "Celibacy is one of the core tenants of the priesthood."

"Celibacy is about marriage, not sex," Gibbs said.

"And abstention from sex is required outside of marriage. I swore an oath to God to abstain from sexual relations."

"But he was right there, all the time. You couldn't resist forever," Gibbs said.

"No. I never…"

"You worked for him. He led you into temptation," DiNozzo said, repeating what he remembered from the tape of Fredrick's conversation. "You were seduced by your mentor."

"No," Thayer said again.

"Did you have sex with him? Your commander?" Gibbs asked, even lower now.

"I did not!" Thayer cried, his voice breaking. "It wasn't my fault!"

"What wasn't your fault? What did he do to you?" Gibbs asked. His voice had dropped to a near whisper.

"He… I… I didn't want him to do it," Thayer said.

"Do what?" DiNozzo asked just as softly.

"I told him to stop. I told him it was wrong, evil. He…" Thayer trailed off again.

"What? What was wrong?" Gibbs asked.

Thayer opened and closed his mouth several times, then pressed the heels of his hands to his cheekbones, his palms covering his eyes. He shook his head slowly back and forth. Gibbs and DiNozzo exchanged looks.

"No," the priest said and lowered his hands. He had composed himself, his features back to a mask of calm. "It was nothing. The evil in him nearly pulled me down. I spent a lot of time in prayer, and that's when God spoke to me."

"So what happened to him?" Gibbs asked, his tone back to conversational. Thayer didn't pretend not to understand.

"He died," Thayer said.

"How?" DiNozzo asked, curious.

"He was lost at sea."

"That happened not long after you got your mission from God, didn't it?" Gibbs asked.

Thayer shrugged. "I suppose it did."

"He went overboard during the Ironman," Gibbs said.

"That's right," Thayer agreed.

"You were out there with him, that night, when he fell." Gibbs stated.

"I was, earlier," Thayer said. "We were talking."

"About what?" DiNozzo asked.

"I can't see where that's any of your business," Thayer said. "It was a private conversation. That's why we were out on the fantail. For privacy. I left him there."

"You'd been at sea a hundred days, with only one port call at that point. Long time to be stuck on a ship with someone who was trying to seduce you," Gibbs said. "Especially a superior officer. A mentor."

"It's a big ship," Thayer said.

"He was your commander," DiNozzo said. "You couldn't exactly avoid him."

"We had an excellent working relationship. It wasn't a problem."

"Yeah, but then there were all those non-working hours," Gibbs said. "When he was trying to seduce you," he repeated.

"It got difficult at times," Thayer admitted. "But with God's help, I handled it."

"Until you couldn't handle it anymore. Then you gave in to the temptation," DiNozzo said.

"I told you, it was nothing," Thayer insisted.

"And how many times did this 'nothing' happen?" Gibbs asked.

Thayer shook his head again. "It's not important. I handled it."

"But you were tempted. You liked it, whatever he did to you. It felt good. And you gave in, more than once," Gibbs said.

There was another sigh, and Thayer bobbed his head up and down slightly. "I was tempted, more than once. But God gave me what I needed to overcome it."

"Isn't there something about that in Corinthians, too?" Gibbs asked. "About God giving you a way to get through temptation?"

Thayer nodded. "First Corinthians ten, thirteen: 'And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it'."

"So, more than 100 days at sea. A supervisor you had to work with every day dragging you into sin. No real way out," Gibbs said. "You must have prayed hard for God to provide a way. Then when no way out came, you made your own."

"God told me what I had to do," Thayer said.

"You removed yourself from your friend's evil," Gibbs said, also quoting from the conversation with Fredrick.

"That's right."

"But there was no safe way to do that," DiNozzo said. "You could have reported him under DADT, but you'd have been just as guilty. Other than that, he hadn't done anything worthy of having him removed from the carrier, especially in the middle of a response to the worst terrorist attack this country's ever suffered. And there was no way you could remove yourself without ruining your career. Not to mention ruining your mission before it even got started."

Thayer said nothing.

"You had to get rid of him. He would have destroyed you. And your mission," Gibbs reiterated.

"There was evil in him," Thayer said.

"Evil that was threatening to destroy you," Gibbs said.

"Yes."

"No individual man is more important than God's work," Gibbs said. He was again lowering his voice in steps, lulling Thayer into a sense of safety.

"That's true," Thayer said.

"You had been given an assignment, a mission, by God. God spoke to you, told you what you had to do," DiNozzo said.

"Yes."

"So you had to get rid of him. You couldn't let his evil destroy you," Gibbs said.

"Yes," Thayer said.

"Did you push him?" DiNozzo asked quietly.

"He fell," Thayer said.

"Were you there when it happened?" Gibbs asked. Thayer hesitated.

"Yes," he finally replied.

"Why did he fall?" From DiNozzo.

"I don't know," Thayer said.

"Did he trip over something?" DiNozzo asked.

"I don't know," Thayer said, his voice once again firming up. "I don't know why he fell. He was there, walking with me, then he wasn't. That's all."

Gibbs knew, beyond a doubt, that Thayer knew more than he was saying. But he also sensed it was time once again to move on. They'd come back to it.

* * *

to be continued... immediately


	52. Part 49

**One Less - Part 49**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

"Why did your mission target only the Catholics?" Gibbs continued after a moment. "Surely your religion doesn't have the corner on the evil homosexual market."

"It was the way God chose to tell me who was doing the most evil," Thayer said. "Men would come to me and confess their sin. I would counsel them, tell them they had to resist. I would give them a chance to repent, to turn away from their wicked ways. When they didn't, I knew they had to be removed before they could cause more harm, take others down with them."

"When did Petty Officer Ferrara come to you?" Gibbs asked.

"A short time before his death," Thayer said, "God rest his soul." He crossed himself.

Gibbs suppressed a sudden desire to break his nose. "You told us he'd been talking to you for some time," he said instead.

"He had. But he didn't confess the nature of his struggles at first. Once he did, I tried to work with him. But he was resistant. He didn't want to repent. He wanted to justify his sin. He wanted to argue with me, misquote scripture, convince me that the Church was wrong on this issue." Thayer shook his head sadly. "He was deeply in denial and no matter how I counseled him, he resisted. I knew then he had to be removed."

"So you told Petty Officer Lewiston to take him out," DiNozzo said.

"To help him see his sin," Thayer corrected. "I prayed with Danny Lewiston. I told him Frank was resistant. That due to his injury and how hard he fought to return to the navy, it would be very difficult to convince him to leave voluntarily. That they would have to be forceful with him. I did not tell them to kill him. Salvation can only come while the soul is still present within the body. Frank needed time to realize the evil of his sin. Once he'd been removed from the navy, he would have been more able to escape temptation, to see the wrong path he was traveling. He would have overcome, eventually. He was strong. He wasn't supposed to die."

"What about Major Ortiz?" Gibbs asked.

Thayer frowned. "Major Ortiz?"

"Was he supposed to die?" Gibbs asked.

"Of course not," Thayer said.

"So why did he?" DiNozzo asked.

"I don't know. I'm a priest, not a doctor."

"He died because he was hurt so badly. Why did that happen? Why was he hurt so much worse than the others?" DiNozzo asked. It was his turn to take the lead. He couldn't have said how he knew, he just did. He also knew it was time to up the priest's stress level.

"I don't know how badly they hurt him," Thayer said.

"Yes you do. You were there," DiNozzo said, his tone hardening. Thayer frowned, cocked his head. He opened his mouth and closed it again. DiNozzo continued.

"Your attack team went into Dubai and beat him up. They returned to the dock and met you there. They told you where they left him. You went into the city and found him. You had to make sure he paid for his deception. For hiding among you for so long."

"Who told you that?" Thayer asked. He'd begun shaking his head back and forth in denial. Not denying he'd done it, but denying it was possible that they knew.

"You must have been really angry," DiNozzo continued aggressively. "He'd been working your mission, helping expel the evil, pretending to be one of you. Then suddenly you find out he's one of them. How did you find out?"

Thayer said nothing and after a moment, DiNozzo continued.

"He was a Watcher, already part of the mission. He was threatening to report you. He wouldn't have been stupid enough to confess to you."

"Major Ortiz was not a stupid man," Thayer agreed almost absently. His mind was clearly racing. Trying to come up with a lie?

"So how'd you find out?" Gibbs asked, his voice merely curious.

Thayer's expression darkened. "He exposed himself," he said. DiNozzo blinked, glanced at Gibbs, then back at Thayer.

"Exposed himself? Like…" DiNozzo trailed off. "Explain."

"I saw him, in a club. In Naples. It was… disgusting. He was dancing with other men. Bodies pressing together, hands everywhere, kissing…" Thayer stopped. His tone was disgust, but the look on his face didn't match. Gibbs frowned slightly.

"It turned you on," Gibbs stated, almost to himself.

"No," Thayer denied vehemently.

"What were you doing in a gay nightclub?" DiNozzo asked.

Thayer took a breath. "I was… doing my job. Searching for lost sheep."

"Right," DiNozzo said, clearly disbelieving.

"Tensions in the Gulf region were running very high," Thayer said. "The war in Afghanistan was heating up, and our men were putting themselves in harm's way on a more frequent basis. When they got liberty, they were going overboard, unwittingly taking extreme personal risks, compensating for the constant pressures they were under aboard ship. Senior officers and enlisted were ordered by the Captain to make ourselves obvious in town, to remind the junior men of their duty as representatives of the Unites States Navy. I took the assignment seriously. I was in the habit of seeking out the more high-risk areas of town. I stepped into the nightclub, completely unaware of the nature of the clientele. As soon as I realized where I was, I turned to leave. I didn't anticipate that any of our sailors would be found in such a place. It was only providence that made me notice Major Ortiz."

"Providence," Gibbs repeated.

"Yes. There was a Judas among us. If I hadn't seen him that night, I might never have known the mission was corrupted."

"So what did you do about it?" DiNozzo said.

"I told the men. Whatever they did in their anger was their sin, not mine."

"You must have been pretty angry yourself, over him keeping such a secret. You believed your mission was from God, and he was putting it at risk."

"It was from God," Thayer objected.

"Okay," DiNozzo said. "So you were doing what God told you to do, and this sinner, this Judas, was betraying you." His tone told Thayer exactly how pissed he should have been.

"I was upset. I did feel betrayed," Thayer agreed.

"So what did you do about it?"

"I already told you," Thayer said.

"You went into the city, you found him," Gibbs said, tearing Thayer's attention back to him again. "We have it on video."

"What?" Thayer asked. He was startled, and the agents could almost smell his sudden fear.

"You think they don't have security cameras in Dubai?" Gibbs asked, stretching the truth more than a little. "It took a while, but we found the tape. It shows you with him after the attack team was done."

"So what?" Thayer asked, his bravado false. "I didn't do anything unauthorized."

"Unauthorized? Under whose law?" DiNozzo said incredulously.

"Under the law of God," Thayer said. "He had to be punished for his betrayal."

"Punished more than the others?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes."

"Punished more than the men you sent could handle," DiNozzo said.

"That's right," Thayer said. "He needed to understand the severity of what he'd done. I needed to be sure the lesson was properly taught."

"So you found him, and you punished him," DiNozzo said. He was choosing his words carefully now, guiding Thayer in the direction they needed him to go. "You punished him for his sin, and for trying to stop what you were doing in the name of God. You punished him as a father punishes his wayward children."

Thayer cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. Tony took that as a sign.

"Like a child, you showed him the natural consequences of his behavior," DiNozzo said.

"Natural consequences," Thayer said softly.

"That's right," DiNozzo said, agreeable now. "You showed him what would happen if he didn't return to the righteous path."

"That's right," Thayer echoed.

"You showed him what happened to men who lust after other men," DiNozzo said.

"Yes I did," Thayer said. "I showed him the natural consequences of continuing to pursue a life of sexual perversion."

"What did you use?" Gibbs asked. He asked matter-of-factly, no censure, no condemnation.

"The same pipe they beat him with. They left it there, beside him."

"You sodomized him with it," Gibbs said. Thayer suddenly recoiled as if he'd been hit, pushing back into the wheelchair. His expression showed revulsion.

"No!" he almost shouted. "I did not!"

Again, Gibbs and DiNozzo exchanged looks. Thayer was clearly telling the truth.

"So what did you do?" DiNozzo asked, a little confused.

"I beat him. In the groin. I made sure the next time he tried to engage in sodomy, there would be no pleasure in it for him, if he was even able to perform at all. And then I marked him and dragged him onto the street."

"Marked him? How?" Gibbs asked. There'd been nothing about that in the injury report.

"I wrote a message on his forehead, to whomever would come next. To let them know he preferred men."

There was stunned silence. Finally, Gibbs spoke. "You set him up to be raped," he said.

Thayer shrugged. "I showed him what lay down the path he had chosen."

Another few moments of silence. Both agents needed a minute. The cruelty of that, to mark a man as homosexual in a city where the ruling religion dictated such men be stoned, was hard to fathom. They'd seen how cruel men could be to one another. In this conspiracy, they had it on tape. But to think that a man of God would do... that. It gave them pause.

"So you weren't surprised when he didn't return to the ship," DiNozzo said to get the conversation going again.

"No."

"You knew it was likely he'd be found and that someone else would attack him."

"Yes."

"In fact, you hoped they would," Gibbs said.

"Truthfully, yes. He needed to learn." Thayer looked past Gibbs toward his own reflection in the mirror.

"He learned," Gibbs said. "Why didn't the flight deck fence keep your commander from going overboard?"

"It was down," Thayer said, still looking at himself and apparently unphased by the sudden return to that topic.

"Which meant it should have caught him," Gibbs said.

"The lift mechanism on the section where he fell was broken. The section was hanging straight down. It's part of the reason there were no flight ops that night."

"How many times did you walk past that section before you decided to push him overboard?" Gibbs asked.

"I didn't decide to do anything," Thayer said.

"Before God showed you how to escape your temptation," DiNozzo supplied the answer.

Thayer thought about it. He looked at DiNozzo, then back to the mirror. "A few. We were talking for quite a while. I was trying to help him see his evil. There were a handful of planes parked on the bow end of the deck, so we were making circles from middeck to stern. The missing section of fence was on the port side of the fantail."

"You noticed the section was down, you knew no flight ops meant no one was likely paying attention to what was happening on deck. Were the deck lights on?" DiNozzo asked. Of the two agents, he'd been the one more recently afloat, and he had a pretty good image in his head of the conditions as they must have existed that night.

"No," Thayer answered the question. He was only peripherally paying attention to the agents. Gibbs wondered how much further they could push him toward confession before he realized what he was doing.

"So it was pretty dark."

"After the sun set, yes. It always is, out on the ocean."

"There wasn't much chance you'd be seen, on the flight deck in the dark, no one watching from the tower."

"That's true."

"You waited until you were next to the missing fence section and you pushed him," DiNozzo said. "He must have been surprised."

Thayer sighed. "He was surprised," he said. "He had no idea he was about to face judgment. I gave him many opportunities to confess, to seek forgiveness." Once again, there was regret. "He wouldn't see truth. He wouldn't leave me alone."

"Did he scream? When he went overboard?" DiNozzo asked.

"No," Thayer said. "He was brave, right to the end. Misguided and morally corrupted, but brave. It was a real shame he wouldn't turn away from his sin. He was a good leader, a brave man, and credit to his country in every other way."

"What evil thing did he do to you that you tried to make him stop?" Gibbs asked. That brought Thayer's focus back.

"It was nothing."

"Was it a hand job? Oral sex? Something more serious?" Gibbs asked. His voice was matter-of-fact.

"Stop it," Thayer said with a frown. "You're being disgusting."

"He gave you a blow job, didn't he?" Gibbs guessed. "And you liked it, because it felt good. There's no shame in doing what feels good."

"Yes there is," Thayer said, shaking his head. "It was wrong. It was evil. Detestable."

"Did you take down your pants, or just open your fly?" DiNozzo said. Unlike Gibbs', his tone showed contempt. It was carefully cultivated.

"Stop it!" Thayer said more loudly, and turned away from DiNozzo. His breathing had sped up, and both the agents could see the vein in his neck pulsating.

"It felt good. You wanted it," Gibbs said calmly, holding Thayer's attention. "And the Bible says both the active and the passive participant in sin are just as evil."

"Yes. No. I mean, yes, that's what the Bible says. But I didn't want it."

"So you had to get rid of him," DiNozzo said like that was the most reasonable thing in the world. "Because he wouldn't stop causing coming after you. It might as well have been rape."

"That's right," Thayer said. "He wouldn't stop. I had no choice. I had to remove him."

"So you pushed him overboard," DiNozzo said. "You killed him. You had to."

"I had to," Thayer said. "He wouldn't stop."

DiNozzo looked over at Gibbs, who nodded slightly. It was enough. They let the silence settle again. Thayer was trying to get his breathing under control, looking down at his lap and squeezing his intertwined fingers.

"You have anything else you'd like to tell us?" Gibbs asked finally.

"Why didn't you kill me?" Thayer asked. Like the priest before him, Gibbs didn't pretend not to understand.

"It's what you wanted us to do. And it would have been too easy. You need to pay for the lives you destroyed."

"Everything I did was the will of God's. I will be judged by Him."

"You'll be judged by us, too," DiNozzo said. Thayer shrugged.

"God's will be done," Thayer said, and crossed himself.

* * *

to be continued, one more time.


	53. Part 50 of 50

This is it, folks. Nothing left but the wrap up. Thank you all for your incredible patience.

* * *

**One Less - Part 50 of 50**

**by joykatleen**

* * *

DiNozzo wheeled the soon-to-be-former naval chaplain out of interrogation. Gibbs took a deep breath and let it out, then shoved his chair back away from the table. He pushed off with his good foot, balancing the chair on its back legs and leaning his head against the glass. He closed his eyes. That was that. It was over. They'd identified everyone involved, and they'd arrested everyone who was still breathing. It was all they could do. But it wasn't enough. Too many lives had been ruined. The priest and his mission should have been stopped years ago. It wasn't the fault of anyone specific; it was an institutional error. Still, it rankled. If only someone had noticed the pattern sooner. If only those who had noticed it had spoken up sooner. If only he hadn't been in Mexico when the Hutchinson case came in.

No. Gibbs stopped that train of thought. There hadn't been enough information available to his team at that point to have made a difference. Even if he'd been here, he wouldn't have caught it. Then he'd really have reason to beat himself up.

The truth of it was that it had taken them less than two weeks to stop a conspiracy that had been going on for years. In the process, no one else got hurt. Present company and dirtbags notwithstanding. And for one homeless vet and one young Marine with a disabled daughter, the outcome had been hope for a better future. They had every reason to be happy with how this had turned out. But somehow, considering the lives that had been ruined, it just wasn't enough.

What a nightmare. What an absolute God-awful nightmare.

There was a tap on the door, and Gibbs opened his eyes. "Enter," he called. The door opened and Goetz poked his head in.

"Okay to come in?" he asked. When Gibbs nodded Goetz did, and took the chair DiNozzo had vacated.

"Is he crazy?" Goetz asked.

"Legally?"

"Actually," Goetz said.

"Probably."

"Will he get off on that?" Goetz asked.

"Not likely," Gibbs said. "If he tries it, the prosecution will argue that he's a priest. Hearing from God and acting accordingly is pretty much his stock in trade."

The two men fell silent, each thinking their own torturous thoughts. Goetz was first to speak. "Before I got hurt, when I first told Thayer I was..."

Gibbs right fist shot up next to his shoulder and Goetz's mouth snapped shut almost audibly. It was a signal any man or woman in the military would instantly recognize as a combination of 'freeze' and 'shut up.' Gibbs raised his index finger, 'wait,' and Goetz nodded.

Using the knuckles on that same hand, Gibbs tapped on the mirror over his shoulder. "Neil. Shut it down and go get some coffee. We're done here." He made a cut motion with his finger. A second later, the light on the camera in the corner winked out. Gibbs waited a minute, then returned his attention to Goetz.

"You were saying?"

"You do that often?" Goetz asked, gesturing toward the mirror and the observation room beyond.

"We don't usually hold private conversations in here."

"I suppose you have a conference room for that," Goetz said.

"An elevator," Gibbs said. When Goetz frowned, Gibbs explained. "Only place in the building other than the head that isn't monitored by security or surveillance cameras."

"I forgot it was on," Goetz admitted.

"I didn't," Gibbs said with a small smile. When Goetz hesitated, Gibbs waved him on. "He's gone. You can talk."

"You sure? Wait, of course you're sure," Goetz said. He was experiencing a strange sense of déjà vu, remembering the last time they'd sat together in this interrogation room. That time, Gibbs had assured him that when he told his team to do something, they did it. Period. At the time, he hadn't really believed Gibbs. Watching the Agent work these last few weeks, Goetz knew Gibbs hadn't been exaggerating.

"When I first told him I was gay, there was a moment, right then, when I knew I'd made a mistake. There was a look on his face, for just a second." Goetz shook his head. "It was like he couldn't control his initial disgust. It was there, then gone. When he spoke, it was like any other sin I'd ever confessed to: He was firm in preaching that what I was doing was wrong, but he was compassionate and understanding about sin and temptation. I convinced myself the revulsion I saw in that split second was just my imagination. I'd been surrounded by it for so long, I just figured I'd reflected my expectations onto him."

Gibbs said nothing. He thought he knew where the Master Chief was going. He also knew it would be better if he let Goetz get there on his own.

"I thought I'd see it from you, too. The last time you had me in here." Goetz gestured at the room.

"You didn't," Gibbs said. That wasn't where he thought Goetz was going. Probably just a detour.

"Your eyes widened for a second, then you just, moved on. Like it was an obstacle to be overcome and nothing more."

"That's all it was."

"I know, now. But at the time I wasn't sure what you were thinking. I'd been working with military men for 12 years at that point, and I'd seen every reaction you could imagine. Yours was different."

Gibbs shrugged, a 'yeah, well,' kind of move.

"Anyway, I saw the look on his face, but it passed so quickly. If I'd paid attention a little more, not fooled myself into seeing what I wanted to see, I might have realized he had a special problem with homosexuality. I might have connected him to the attacks sooner. Maybe ended this thing before Ferrara was killed."

That's where Gibbs thought he was going. He shook his head.

"Nah. What you said before was right," Gibbs said. "No one would have believed a priest could be responsible for this. Exposing it might have ended it one victim sooner, but probably not. And it wouldn't have gotten Thayer. You didn't have enough. The odds that exposing yourself would have stopped this thing in time to save Ferrara were slim. Too slim to take the chance."

"You really believe that?" Goetz asked. "That not telling was the right thing to do?"

Gibbs could see that Goetz really wanted an honest answer, and he took a second to think before carefully choosing his words.

"Set aside for a second what you might or might not have seen on Thayer's face, and how you might have interpreted it knowing only what you knew then. You only knew that someone was beating up gay sailors. If there'd been someone you could have told that to who you knew would do something about it, and you didn't say anything only because you were afraid of exposure, that would have been cowardice, and inexcusable.

"But you didn't know who was in charge of the conspiracy. You had no way of knowing who would and who wouldn't act properly. You had no way of knowing if the person you told might be the person in charge. Then you might as well have signed your own death warrant."

Goetz looked uncertain.

"Look at it this way: You trusted Thayer. He was your confidant and confessor. Again, set aside what you've learned in the meantime. If you'd decided to tell someone, you probably would have told him. Then his 'mission from God' is at risk again. Just like it was with Major Ortiz. And if you'd said something after he knew you were gay, the chances of you coming out of it alive would have somewhat worse than a pigeon at a duck shoot."

The two men fell silent. Goetz was rubbing the knuckles of his left hand with the fingers of his right. Gibbs was staring at nothing. After a minute, Goetz spoke quietly. "I can't get my mind around that. That he would do that. Set the Major up that way."

"If I've learned one thing at this job, it's that no matter how cruel and inhumane you think men can be, you'll always eventually be surprised."

"Did he really murder his CO?"

"Yes."

"Because they were having sex and he felt guilty about it."

"Looks like it."

"That's what this whole thing has been about, isn't it? Thayer's repressed homosexuality."

"Probably," Gibbs agreed.

"People killed, maimed, lives and careers ruined. And for what? Because a few men were afraid to acknowledge there might be another way to love?"

"Fear is a powerful motivator," Gibbs said for want of anything better. When he saw Goetz stare at him, he clarified. "Not that it's an excuse, or even an explanation, for what those bastards were doing."

"How did we get here?" Goetz asked. "There were dozens of men involved in this over the years. Thayer didn't personally corrupt them all. What happened to us that anyone would think doing this is okay?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Above my pay grade, Master Chief."

The ringing of Gibbs' phone interrupted any response Goetz might have made. Gibbs let the legs of his chair fall forward, reaching for it.

It was McGee, and Gibbs could hear him smiling.

"Is Master Chief Goetz still with you?" McGee asked.

"Yes," Gibbs replied.

"There's someone here you both need to meet, Boss," he said.

"Who?" Gibbs asked.

"Uh... Can it be a surprise?" McGee asked. "It's a good surprise," he added quickly. Gibbs rolled his eyes a little. Sometimes he felt like a third grade teacher.

"Be right there," he said. He put the phone away and pulled his chair back to the table. He used the edge of the table to boost himself up onto his good foot.

When he was stable, he looked up and was surprised to see Goetz was next to him with one of the crutches.

"Thanks," Gibbs said and took it. He used the one to hop over to the other.

"Quite the pair, aren't we?" Goetz asked as they left the room. "How much longer you gonna need these?"

"Depends," Gibbs said.

"On what?"

The answer came from behind them. "On whether he can manage to follow the advice of any of his doctors and stop damaging himself."

With a mental groan, Gibbs turned to see Dr. Mallard striding down the hallway toward them. "Hey Ducky, what're you doing here on a Saturday?"

"Delivering some news, Jethro," the doctor said. "How much more damage did you do to it?"

"News?" Gibbs asked, ignoring his question. Ducky shook his head.

"Major Ortiz's remains are scheduled to be interred at the Columbarium at Arlington Monday morning."

"Honor guard?"

"Will be on site at 10 a.m."

"Outstanding," Gibbs said. "You gonna be there?"

"It will be my pleasure to drive you to the ceremony," Ducky said. "And then directly back to your home, where you will stay until someone comes to take you for surgery Tuesday morning. And that is not negotiable."

"Fine," Gibbs said with a sigh.

"Can I come?" Goetz asked. "To the funeral?"

"Sure," Gibbs said. They started moving toward the squadroom again.

"Will anyone else be there?" Goetz asked. Gibbs was about to respond in the negative when Ducky beat him to it.

"I have received RSVPs from two members of his last unit, a doctor and two nurses from the Veterans Administration hospital in San Diego, his former CO Colonel John Hatton, and David and Lara Negrete."

"Who are they?" Gibbs asked. They turned the corner into the squadroom. All three of his team members were present. A middle-aged Asian Indian man with a ring of close-cropped gray hair around an otherwise bald head and a matching neatly trimmed goatee was sitting in the guest chair next to McGee's desk.

"Major Ortiz's youngest sister and her husband." That made both Gibbs and Goetz pause.

"She was only 16 when he died," Ducky explained. "She apparently does not share the rest of the family's callousness toward their lost son."

Gibbs nodded, pleased that the Major's family would be represented. He turned to McGee and with a raise of his eyebrow asked to be introduced to the stranger.

"Special Agent Gibbs, this is Mr. Avari. He owns a pawn shop in Norfolk."

"Mr. Avari," Gibbs said. He braced himself on one crutch and offered a hand. The man stood and shook. "How can I help you?" Gibbs asked. He leaned against the wall divider across the aisle from McGee's desk.

"Actually, Boss, he's here to help us," McGee said. He was still smiling, almost grinning. "He brought this." McGee came out from behind his desk and handed Gibbs an evidence bag. Gibbs peered through the clear plastic. It was a ring. A large man's ring. Gibbs looked back to McGee, who nodded eagerly. Gibbs turned to Goetz.

"Recognize this?" he asked, and handed him the bag. Goetz looked at it and his eyes widened.

"It's... where'd you get this?" he asked the pawnbroker. A range of emotion passed over his face. Surprise, pleasure, a little sorrow.

"It was brought in last spring by a young military man," Avari said. "I paid $500 for it."

"Who brought it in?" Gibbs asked.

"Marine Corporal Richard Rosario," McGee supplied, a real grin now. "He showed ID and signed the pawn slip." He held up another evidence bag.

Gibbs shook his head at the stupidity. "Why do you still have it?" he asked their visitor. "Pawn hold in Virginia's only six months."

"I served four years in the British navy. He was too young to be a Master Chief," the man said. "I asked him about it, he said it belonged to his father. I did not believe him. It was likely worth 20 times what I offered him, and gave not even a token arguement. I thought someone would come looking for it eventually."

"How'd you know to bring it here?" Gibbs asked.

"I was going through stolen goods reports this morning and found this." He took a paper out of his breast pocket and unfolded it. It was a faxed copy of an alert flyer on NCIS letterhead, with the picture of Goetz's ring from the file. "It is rare that I get them from the military. It caught my eye."

Gibbs looked back at McGee, who explained. "I've been sending them out to pawn shops around the shipyard whenever I had time. It was a long shot, but I figured it wouldn't cost us anything to try."

Gibbs nodded. "That's a good job, Tim. Take Mr. Avari's statement. Ziva, get your camera."

"Can I have it back?" Goetz asked Gibbs.

"Soon as Ziva's done taking pictures of it," Gibbs said. Ziva took the evidence bag from him.

"It is yours?" Avari asked. He glanced at the visitor badge Goetz was wearing, confused.

"Yes," Goetz replied. "The ring was stolen while I was in Greece. It's just a coincidence I'm here today."

The pawnbroker smiled a wise smile. "There is very little in life that is coincidence. Only karma, good and bad, and the blessings of the creator. Your treasure has traveled a long way. I am glad I could return it to you."

"Thank you," Goetz said. "Can I pay you for it?"

"Not necessary. Consider it a thank you for your many years of service, Master Chief."

"I..." Goetz was speechless. "Thank you," he said again.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs called. His second, who'd been sitting behind his own desk watching the exchange, stood.

"Yeah Boss?" DiNozzo said.

"Did we authorize a reward fund on this case?"

There was a split-second pause, a hitch really, while Tony processed what Gibbs was really asking.

"Pretty sure we did," DiNozzo agreed. "The usual thousand dollars for information leading to arrest."

"Find out where Mr. Avari would like us to send his check. And see about reimbursing his travel expenses up here."

"You do not have to do that," Avari said, though his eyes were bright. "My daughter lives in Alexandria. This is a good excuse for an extra visit with my grandchildren." He paused and gave a wry smile. "I will, however, take the reward money."

Gibbs smiled back. "This way, Mr. Avari," DiNozzo said and the agent and the pawnbroker moved over to DiNozzo's desk. Gibbs turned back to Goetz.

"Thank you," Goetz said. He cleared the emotion from his throat. "I know you don't actually give rewards for this kind of thing."

A shrug, and Gibbs pushed off the wall, headed for his own desk.

"Nicely done, Jethro," Ducky said quietly, having been observing from the walkway.

"We could use a little good karma right now," Gibbs said with an uncharacteristic nod to fate.

"Indeed, couldn't we all," Ducky said. "I'll be around to pick you up at nine in the morning. Do try to get your paperwork done before then. I'd hate to have to spend the day Monday parked in your driveway making sure you don't try going to work."

"Whatever," Gibbs said, and Ducky laughed.

* * *

FOOF... Fade to black.

Hope you enjoyed it, and I really hope it was worth the wait. Drop me a line or ten and let me know. Until next time... I remain your faithful servant, joy.

* * *

And now, a personal note:

From the song "Held" by Natalie Grant.

_"This is what it means, to be held_  
_How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life_  
_And you survive..._  
_This is what it is to be loved, and to know_  
_That the promise was when everything fell_  
_We'd be held."_

God did not promise life would be all sweet wine and roses. In fact, the Bible tells us there will be pain, and sorrow, and loss. But God did promise that through it all, no matter what happened, He would walk with us and hold us, like a father holds his child, a comfort in times of torment, a light in the darkness.

Lately, my life has been lived mostly in the darkness. For six months, I sat in hospitals with my dad, my best friend, and watched as he got sicker and sicker. I knew that with every day that went by, with every infection he acquired, it got less and less likely that he would ever recover. There were days of hope, but many more days of despair. I fought hard for him, to save him, and he fought hard to live. But it wasn't to be. On Aug. 12, he could fight no longer and my family and I made the decision to withdraw life support and let him join his beloved wife - my mother - in Heaven with their savior. I miss him horribly, but I know he now lives forever in peace, and that I will eventually join him there.

I feel God's hand in my life, today and every day. I know he is holding me close, helping me through this time of sorrow and pain. It's not about keeping the pain away, it's about placing my trust in Him, knowing that this is a pain I will survive. Feeling God's arms around me and knowing that this is what it means to be held.

See you later, Poppy.


End file.
